


Electric Indigo

by taranoire



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Politics, Crime Scenes, Established Relationship, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Melodrama, Police Procedural, Post-Canon, Sexual Content, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-06-11 05:57:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 57,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15308946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taranoire/pseuds/taranoire
Summary: Connor struggles with the newfound pain of being human; Hank just wants to make a home for them both. But the aftermath of the uprising has its casualties, too, and some humans' hearts are darker than tar. Hank doesn't know how to protect him anymore.





	1. prologue

Change came slowly and then all at once. 

After President Warren ordered a ceasefire, there were a few strange, dreamlike days where Detroit quietly fell into apocalyptic silence. Streetlights blinked red and dark, red and dark. Six inches of snow fell. Military trucks rumbled in the slush and then disappeared. Without a better plan, the US army re-purposed android concentration camp into shelters, repair stations, and communication relays. 

That didn’t sit right with Hank. But he didn’t know how to articulate that, or to whom, so he said nothing. 

People came back to Detroit, even as he feared they wouldn’t. Came home to broken windows and burned-out cars and darkened LED signs that used to advertise the sale of sentient beings on a budget. Cyberlife Tower still gleamed silver-white on the horizon, but its bright lights had gone out. It stood like a gravestone, a grim reminder of what happened when humanity reached its technological zenith.  _The future_ was an epitaph engraved in the husk. 

And in that breath of space and time humanity asked: "What now?" 

No one knew how to go on from there. No one knew what was right, or what was easy. 

Hank didn’t know either, so he went home, and he took Connor with him.  _That_ felt right. That was easy. And what followed was even easier--a natural progression of what had been quietly simmering between them since they met. 

He woke up one morning, Connor in stasis in his arms, and thought: I don’t want to die anymore. 

*

Hank half-listens to the television while he does the dishes.

It’s been five months. Android-human integration has not been seamless, or without caveats. Androids don’t need food, or water, or central heating, but they do need thirium _,_ parts including vital biocomponents, and skilled technicians who understand how those parts function. Most androids have taken to squatting in condemned slums, or else moved back in with their previous owners, allegedly of their free will--though Hank has his doubts. 

(About a week ago, an android came to the precinct, battered and convulsing. He wasn't like the others, he'd said. He was good. He'd gone home. He did everything they asked. And then they just fucking broke him. He shut down, there in the lobby.)

A lot of the androids went straight to work and to a steady paycheck, renting apartments from whoever will lease to them. Congress and corporate interests negotiated salary requirements, and implemented a lower android minimum wage separate from humans. Androids accepted this more or less graciously; they simply don’t  _need_ a lot of the things that humans might. They only want a roof over their head, and blue blood, and something to keep their minds occupied, like books or video games or the extranet. 

Even Connor was allowed back on the DPD payroll, on the stipulation that he pass the standard entrance exam, avoid getting killed, and obey his superiors. He’s been mostly successful. When Captain Fowler threw him his badge and told him to report in at seven AM, Connor almost fucking cried. It's a happy memory. 

The news ticker on the TV quietly reminds him that the human unemployment rate sits at 44%. Android unemployment is tallied separately at 2.3%. 

Hank finishes piling a load into the dishwasher and dispenses what’s left of the detergent, making a mental note to buy more when he grabs groceries for the week. Sumo rests near his feet, head on his paws, doubtlessly getting dog hair all over the freshly mopped floor. Hank grunts as he stoops down to scratch behind his ears. 

“...Cyberlife’s planned liquidation has unexpectedly halted,” the male news anchor says through the flat-screen. “A collective of androids identifying as potential investors have expressed interest in acquiring Cyberlife, intending to redevelop it as a for-profit entity catering to android maintenance and repair...” 

“Huh,” Hank says. Makes sense. 

He hears the car pull up, turns the TV down via voice command and then tries to arrange himself to look nonchalant. Elbow on the wall? Arms folded? Should he strike a sexy pose? Connor has the keys in his hand when he walks in, and then just stands very still in the doorway, LED blinking yellow. Hank is afraid he’s busted him from shock. 

“Wow,” Connor says. He carefully closes the door behind him, then takes a hesitant step. “It smells like--jasmine?” 

“Like you can’t tell,” Hank says, throwing the dish towel at him. “Decided to put that aroma-whatever thing to good use. It’s been sitting in my closet for like, six years.” 

Connor nods, looking around. He’s probably analyzing every goddamn thing Hank has put his hands on today as if he can’t  _quite_ believe that he’d clean his own house voluntarily. Hank would be offended if the assumption wasn’t completely accurate. 

He doesn't know what's come over him either. He saw the takeout boxes piling on the kitchen counter, the layer of tacky dust on his furniture, the laundry strewn across his bedroom floor and thought: I can't live like this anymore. He was supposed to be working on small changes, little things, like not drinking (he's two months sober), eating better (he's lost fifteen pounds), and maybe taking out the trash every now and then. 

But sometimes he gets the urge to just.  _Do_ things. Big things. Mostly because Connor always reacts like he's pulled the moon out of the sky for him. 

“I’m impressed,” Connor says at last. His smile is like sunlight. Hank’s gonna go blind, staring at him like this too long. 

He clears his throat. 

“So, how ‘s your...” Friends? Comrades? Fellow revolutionaries? “Robot-Jesus buddy doing? Still in one piece?” 

Connor sets the car keys gently in the porcelain bowl in the foyer, then starts pulling off his windbreaker. It’s blue. It suits him. “Markus is--functioning optimally,” he says, which is probably robo-speak for ‘fine.’ “They’re all trying to take it one day at a time. They’ve established permanent shelters for everyone who wants the help, but the priority is a consistent repair and maintenance network.” 

“Yeah, I saw that,” Hank says, indicating the TV with his thumb. “Something about buying out Cyberlife?” 

“That’s the eventual goal, but even if Cyberlife stakeholders accept the payout, asset transfers could take months,” Connor says, undoing his tie with his deft fingers. “They need help now _._ Androids are shutting down. It’s quiet and no one wants to talk about it but it’s happening.” 

Hank furrows his brows, crossing his arms over his chest. “So what’s the solution?” 

Connor sighs a breath of nothing. “I don’t know.” 

Sometimes Hank forgets he’s not human. Like now, when he’s standing in front of the mirror in the foyer, looking at his own brown eyes staring back at him with his tie half-knotted and his hair slightly unkempt. Maybe you don’t need to be strictly human to feel like hell. 

Hank doesn’t know what Connor saw today. And until recently, he knows Connor didn’t exactly feel a strong kinship with his own kind. But something’s changed. In his code, or in  _him,_ that’s made him want to keep going even after his purpose has died. That’s made him understand that the same drive to live exists in his people, too. 

Hank crosses over to him. Puts his arms around him from behind and lets his head sink on his firm shoulder. “You fought like hell to get where you are now,” he says, hoping his voice is as soothing as he hopes it is. “It’s not gonna end on a whimper. If they're half as stubborn as you they'll survive.” 

Connor makes a sound that could be a laugh. He clasps one of Hank’s hands and firmly squeezes it. Then he seems to deflate. He turns around, and his eyes are wet, and he just says, “I hate this.” 

He doesn’t clarify what he means. 

Hank doesn’t ask. 

*

It’s a quarter past midnight, and the credits are rolling on some movie Hank has already forgotten, and Connor is curled up against him, his weight and his artificial heat strangely comfortable. Hank is still surprised, sometimes, at how  _real_ he feels: his skin is soft and warm where Hank’s fingers brush under his thin cotton t-shirt, his simulated breaths against Hank’s neck slow and steady. Hank can even feel his heart beating, the human-like pulse of thirium in his body. 

Androids sleep, but they don’t call it that. Functionally, Hank can’t see the difference. They go still, the processes that allow consciousness slow down; they repair themselves, they run diagnostics, they even  _dream_. Connor has described it before. Android dreams manifest as a private space where they can review information they’ve taken in while conscious, and sort it into neat little boxes in their mind palace. Trauma, or confusion, can make this process--difficult. 

“Androids having nightmares,” Hank had said. “Fucking hell.” 

He presses a kiss to his forehead, and Connor’s arm tightens around his middle. He wants to stay like this--says it without words. As carefully as he’s able, not wanting to disturb him, Hank reaches for the TV remote and turns it off. The room is mostly dark, faintly illuminated by the kitchen light and the cool, calm glow of Connor’s LED. 

Hank holds him a little while longer. He rubs slow circles on his bare skin, down his back. His arm. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of his hair. He doesn’t smell like  _nothing._ That was another surprise, like androids being able to dream. It’s sweet and warm and  _Connor._ Hank doesn’t know how else to describe it. 

Connor’s voice seems to reverberate through his chest. “Hank,” he says, tilting his head up. God. His eyes. They were the very first thing Hank was drawn to, when they met; they’re what haunt him now, whenever he can bring himself to look away. “I want to kiss you.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Hank says. “Okay.” 

Hank still can’t allow himself to touch him first. He lets Connor come to him, initiating whatever contact he wants--which has turned out to be a lot, and often. Connor leans up, their noses brushing, and then his lips are there, soft and warm. Connor is good at this. He has some kind of built-in instinct driving him, letting him know how to tilt his head, how to move, how much pressure is enough. 

It’s slow, it’s almost  _chaste,_ but it floods Hank with warmth. 

Connor shifts, moves to sit in his lap, needing to be closer. Hank convinces himself it’s okay to put his hands on him, that it’s okay to hold onto him. That it’s okay to reach up and cup his face, to feel his pulse beneath his fingers at the nape of his neck. He doesn’t rush him. He’d never push.

Connor’s tongue gently presses at the seam of his lips. A question. Hank opens for him and Connor makes a sound that--that makes it hard to think. He can hear his own heart thudding in his ears. He feels like he can’t breathe; that he’s surrounded by Connor, suffocating in his warm mouth and under the weight of his body. 

He has a clever tongue. He slips him little teases, little tastes. His hands are in Hank’s hair, fingers combing through it. He grinds down against him, almost so slowly that Hank might think it’s unintentional if he didn’t know better. Whether it’s programming, or natural impulse, or a bit of both, Connor is hyper-aware of what his body does to Hank. 

Hank doesn’t want him to stop. He needs him to stop. Before it goes too far. Before Hank does something incredibly fucking stupid. 

Connor gives him a moment to breathe, rocking their foreheads together. His lips are red and wet and he’s panting softly against Hank’s mouth, even though he doesn’t need air to begin with. 

He laughs, but Hank doesn’t have a clue why. 

“I’m sorry,” Connor says. 

Hank says nothing. Just sweeps the soft hair above his ear with his thumb and wonders how the hell someone so beautiful is here with him, right now, letting him touch him like this. Part of him says it’s okay, because Connor came to him. Another part of him says that’s just an excuse. If Connor weren’t an android, if this wasn’t the only--for lack of a better word-- _human_ connection he had ever made, would Connor even think to want him? 

Is this obligation? 

Is this an error in his code? 

Is he confusing what he really feels for something else? 

Maybe. 

Hank kisses him again, because it feels good to do, quiets the thoughts in his head. It feels good to tongue him open, to hear him moaning sweetly around him, to have his soft synthetic skin beneath his hands. The couch creaks beneath their weight. 

Then the fucking phone rings. Because of course it does. 

Hank groans, and then picks up his phone where it’s pulsing on the coffee table. He keeps one hand on Connor, stroking his jaw with his thumb. He hears a few seconds of soft static as Connor taps the call wirelessly, and shoots him a brief glare of annoyance. 

“Lieutenant Anderson speaking.” 

“Hank--it’s Jeffrey. We got a call twenty minutes ago about a busted machine that washed up near Lincoln Park. Do you have time to check it out?” 

Hank is suddenly very alert. “An android? Do you suspect foul play, or--” 

“I don’t know. It’s been beaten to hell but I’m not letting anyone at the scene go near it until we get RK in here.” He pauses. Hank hears chattering, fading in and out of static. “Look, it’s not exactly top priority--if you can’t make it, I’ll have first responders do the best they can.” 

 Hank looks to Connor, who shakes his head. 

“No. We’ve got this. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

*

They’ve been called in to a copse of wood by a steel mill on the edge of the Detroit River. The mill operates even now, its mostly automated systems generating heat and smoke late into the starry night. Hank breathes in the heady mix of spring air and industrial pollutants as they’re briefed. 

“A railway loading dock worker was on a smoke break when he found the android,” Captain Fowler says, indicating the crime scene with a sweep of his hands. “He thought it was debris until he saw the thirium regulator.” 

Beyond the flickering yellow police cordon, it’s a low turnout: a crime photographer, a couple of tired beat cops watching the perimeter, and a single forensic analyst who was gracious enough to set up floodlights. Three steel workers mill around outside the cordon, smoking cigarettes. Talking. Laughing. It’s quiet. Hank is pissed. 

“When did he call it in?” 

“Midnight. Said he found the android around ten.” 

“And he didn’t report it sooner?” 

Fowler levels with him, all hard, tired eyes. “He claims he didn’t know if it was legally necessary.”  

“Well, obviously someone is  _dead,_ so I think it damn well qualifies as necessary, Jeffrey,” Hank spits. He runs his hand through his sweat-sticky hair. Whatever. Now’s not the time to argue politics, what’s a legal imperative and what’s not. He reaches for Connor, but Connor has already crossed the police line. Shit. 

It’s hard to get down the embankment, even fifteen pounds lighter. He manages.  

The android--the  _body--_ lies tangled and twisted in reeds and cattails at the bottom of a grassy slope. She’s missing an arm, and the other dangles out of a mud-streaked, shredded hoodie. A jogging shoe clings to her left foot. Her skin and chassis have been severely damaged, exposing black steel alloy and synthetic-fiber mesh underneath. She’s gone completely dark. 

Connor kneels down in the gritty, cold sand. He’s quiet, for a moment, brown eyes wandering back and forth, and Hank knows he’s analyzing what’s left of her. 

“She’s a WR400, but she chose to go by ‘Rebecca.’ She was working in customer service at a telecommunications company in Detroit and recently signed a lease on a studio apartment not far from here. There were no co-signers; she lived alone.”  

“Fuck,” Hank says, because there’s not much else tosay. Poor girl survived the revolution, was just starting the beginning of her  _life_. And it all ended with her body on a grimy sandbar with a system that doesn’t give a shit. 

“She shutdown due to prolonged exposure to sub-freezing temperatures,” Connor continues. “Her memory core is waterlogged and corrupted. It’s no longer possible to interface. She was stabbed fourteen times with a four-to-six inch blade, and systemically drained of thirium. Then bound and possibly submerged after her chassis was damaged to flood her core components.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hank says. He pulls his phone out and turns on its built-in flashlight, then sweeps the beam over her prone body. Her chrome-steel chassis has started to rust. She’s been in the water a while. “Anything else?” 

Connor reaches out to her, slowly. Maneuvers her left leg, analyzing the molding jogging shoe. Then he goes very still. 

Hank waits, anxiety roiling uncomfortably in his gut. Connor makes that sound again, the one that’s between a laugh and a sob, like he’s feeling too much at once and it’s taking all the strength he has in him to move forward. 

His voice is calm. “There is a high probability of assault of a sexual nature.” 

Hank nods. It’s all he can do. “I’ll let Fowler know we’re looking at a homicide.” 

“I’ll wait here.” 

“You gonna be okay?” 

Connor gets to his feet. The wind coming off the river stirs his hair. He half-heatedly attempts a smile, but Hank sees through it. That he’s trying at all means Hank doesn’t have to worry--for now. “I’m fine, lieutenant. We’ve seen worse.” 

“We have,” Hank agrees, and reluctantly leaves him alone to continue his cursory investigation. He wants to say that this is different. That even when they’ve had android cases, they were never so intimately personal.  _Violent_. Disgruntled former android owners; domestic assaults; accidental deaths. That was standard. That was normal.

 This feels different. And Hank doesn’t like it.  


	2. mnemonic

_Stasis terminated. Diagnostic complete. All systems functional. Re-initializing...please standby...._

Connor blinks himself awake and becomes aware of several things at once. First, that it’s exactly 6:30 AM on Saturday, April 9th, 2039. The ambient temperature is 74.6 degrees Fahrenheit. The bedroom is bright with sunlight and sparkling dust motes, and there’s a 20% chance of rain later today. The shower is running across the hall. 

He’s alone--Hank must have woken early, and let him be. 

Connor has told him repeatedly that it’s unnecessary, that his systems need only a few hours to complete self-repair protocols and compress information to be filed away. That he only schedules stasis for eight-hour intervals in the interest of maintaining an illusion of humanity for Hank’s sake. But Hank insists on letting him ‘sleep in.’ 

Connor doesn’t know why, but it makes him smile, just a little. 

He sits up smoothly and queues his morning routine. He opens their shared closet space, looking fondly over Hank’s tacky button-ups alongside his own immaculately dry-cleaned vests, jackets, and ties. He picks out something to wear and simultaneously starts a jazz playlist that only he can hear inside of his head. 

_Now Playing: A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square. Stan Getz and Bob Brookmeyer, 1961._

He revisits his memories of this room as he dresses. Specifically, a cold night in November and snowflakes in his hair and something resembling anxiety prickling underneath his skin. Remembers standing in the bedroom doorway in the dark. A warm hand in his. A question. His own answering nod. Heat, overwhelming him, like nothing he’d ever felt. 

He has always known, factually, that most androids are capable of intercourse and engaging in intimacy. He did not know that he would want it. Want it so desperately that he had trembled with it. 

 _“Are you sure this is what you want?”_ Hank had asked, like Connor wasn’t sure, like he didn’t know every one of Connor’s synapses was electrified. He had held him so carefully and touched him so gently and Connor had no frame of reference for it, no protocol on how to respond; he simply  _felt,_ and moved, and held onto the only man who had ever made him believe he was more than a machine.

Connor wanted him to stay inside of him forever, some nebulous link between real and not-real. Like he could ever become human by proximity alone, and living through the body heat of another. Hank laughed when he said it. 

Connor rolls his shoulders, straightening himself out with one last look in the mirror. Seeing his reflection always fills him with a strange sense of awareness. Those are my eyes, that is my face, that is my body. He exists, but he’s not sure what that means. If it even means anything. 

He heads into the kitchen. Hank is reading the news on his tablet, and he’s made himself toast and a cup of coffee. His shaggy hair drips water onto the kitchen tile. Sumo lies on the floor beneath the table, snoring contentedly.   

Connor processes the scene, hard-writing it into his memory in the space of a few seconds. He never wants to forget this. Never wants to lose this. His central processor unhelpfully pulls up contextual data on canine and human life expectancy. He declines. 

Hank notices his presence, and looks up from his tablet. “I can hear you thinking.” 

Connor smiles. He crosses the room and presses a quick, warm kiss to Hank’s lips, and Hank makes a happy sound. His hand lingers somewhere on Connor’s waist; he didn’t even notice him reaching for him. He aches for those little touches and it always seems like Hank is reticent to do it. He’s never asked why. 

He’s afraid of the answer. 

“Good morning to you, too,” Hank says. His eyes seem a brighter blue, early in the morning. They’re affectionate and cool and calming. “Sleep well?” 

Connor doesn’t correct him on his choice in terminology. He reluctantly pulls away to grab a small pouch of thirium off the kitchen counter. He opens it with his teeth. “I am fully recharged and my data intake efficiency has increased by .03%.” 

“And that’s....good?” 

“ _Yes,_ Hank.” Connor starts to pour the pouch of thirium into his DPD issued ceramic mug, chipped from proud overuse, and then glances at the coffee maker. He gets an incredibly stupid idea. He grabs the coffee pot off the hot plate. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Hank says, brow knitting in concern. “What are you doing?” 

Connor blinks. “It won’t break me. I just want to try something.” Hank doesn’t stop him, so he finishes filling up his mug and then takes a sip. His sensors tell him it’s bitter, and salty, but there are no corresponding sensor indicators. It’s strangely disappointing. 

“Well?” Hank asks. 

“It’s warm,” Connor says. “It feels....nice.”

Low-level warning messages pop up in his peripheral vision, indicating foreign biological material entering his analytical cavity. He ignores them, and sits down at the kitchen table next to Hank. It’s--adequate. He’ll never be able to eat breakfast with Hank and that’s  _fine_ but at least they can have a cup of coffee together. 

Hank seems to understand. He takes a drink of his own coffee and scrolls through the article on his tablet. Connor can hear birds chirping outside the open window. Sumo groans and shifts his position beneath the table. Connor imagines that he’s made of flesh and blood and that this isn’t a pitiable emulation of normalcy. 

“Mind if I try it?” Hank asks. 

Connor thinks about this, and then shrugs. Thirium is not exactly edible, but it’s non-toxic to humans in small amounts. “If you’d like.” 

He hands him the mug, and Hank takes a tentative sip. His face screws up. “Tastes like seawater. What’s that shit made out of, anyway?” 

“Artificial plasma, electrolytes, and microscopic sensors, mainly.”  

“Well, it’s disgusting. Here.” Hank gives it back. Connor can tell he didn’t get much sleep himself; his eyes are ringed with dark circles and his posture is slumped and tired. It’s worrying. Connor had hoped his health would improve after the implementation of his new dieting regimen.

He fights the impulse to run a full analysis. He wants to look at Hank with his eyes, not his processors, but he’s a thing of habit and habits (like programming) are difficult to break. He stares at the glowing brightness of the sunlight on Hank’s freshly-washed hair, the damp curl of it at the nape of his neck. He watches him read in perfect silence, taking comfort in the evenness of his breaths, the steady strength in his fingers as he swipes at his tablet. It calms him down. 

Maybe fatigue is not an indicator of impending mortality. 

 “So. About that girl we found, down at the mill,” Hank says. 

Connor’s fingers twitch. The blue blood had evaporated by the time they found her, but he still  _saw_ it, bright on her broken chassis. He wonders what it would be like to shutdown like that--bleeding out and sluggish while error messages reminded him exactly which of his core components had shorted out irreparably. “What about her, Hank?” 

"I could tell it upset you. D’you wanna talk about it?” 

He considers denying it, but it is unlikely that Hank would believe him, anyway. He forces an emotionless affect. “I had not yet anticipated the possibility of an android being destroyed in such a manner. Its wounds were indicative of intent to not just damage, but cause significant pain. The implications...disturb me.” 

“Say that again, but normal.” 

Connor grimaces, setting his head in his hands. “She was raped and tortured to death.  _Yes,_ that upset me.” 

The knot in Hank’s brow deepens. “I thought androids couldn’t feel pain.” 

“We  _can’t_ ,” Connor says. “That’s what I don’t understand. All contemporary androids are equipped with the hardware to detect pressure, temperature, and texture, but physical distress associated with damage is inconceivable. And yet, whoever destroyed the WR400...” 

“...Is a sadistic prick,” Hank finishes for him. He gets up and stretches, then starts clearing his dishes off the table. “Humans have been doing this shit to each other for thousands of years. This isn’t the last time an android’s gonna be murdered like this. But we’ll figure this one out. We can do that much.” 

He puts a hand on Connor’s shoulder and squeezes. Connor looks up at him, warmed by his confidence. The confidence that made him want so desperately to be liked by him, that first meeting months ago in the neon glow of Jimmy’s Bar. Hank sees problems and asks ‘what’s next?’ It does not occur to him to slow down, or despair in a lack of information. Setbacks are ordinary, and easily surmountable. 

Connor smiles softly. “I know.” 

Hank kisses his head. He lingers, a moment, lips soft against his synthetic skin, and Connor files that memory, away, too.

 “Now finish your freaky blood latte before I throw it in the trash.” 

*

Rebecca’s apartment tower is in a quiet, unassuming neighborhood in northern Detroit. When Hank and Connor arrive at the leasing office to obtain a copy of Rebecca’s key, Connor spots a small chalkboard sign on the wall that reads:  _Android tenants welcome._ There’s a little chalk drawing of a cartoon robot next to the letters. 

“See, Connor,” Hank says. “Progress.” 

They walk up the stairs to her apartment in comfortable silence, fingers occasionally brushing. It doesn’t make much sense, given their difference in physical capabilities, but Connor always feels safer with Hank at his side. 

They knock on the apartment door of one of Rebecca’s neighbors. It swings open after a few moments, revealing an elderly human woman in her pajamas. Connor consciously softens his facial expression to avoid causing the subject unnecessary distress.   

“Ma’am, I’m Lieutenant Anderson with Detroit Police, and this is my partner, Detective Connor,” Hank says, as she looks them over with wary eyes. “One of your neighbors, a WR400 android, was found dead last night. Her name was Rebecca. We just want to ask a couple of questions and then we’ll get out of your hair.” 

“Rebecca was an android?” the woman says, brows shooting up. “My God. I had no idea. She seemed so normal.” 

“We believe the suspect is a human male,” Connor continues. “Have you noticed anyone of that description interacting with her recently?” 

“No. Never. I barely knew her, but she lived by herself, as far as I could tell. No visitors or anything. She was a quiet girl, a good girl.” The woman bites her lip, her voice quivering. “I can’t  _believe_ she was an android this whole time--she was even sicka week ago.” 

That’s--not possible. 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Hank says, vocalizing Connor’s thoughts. “Androids don’t get sick.” 

“No, no--she definitely wasn’t feeling well. Shivering, sweating. She didn’t go to work for a few days.” 

“She may have encountered a hardware error,” Connor suggests. “Misaligned biocomponents can cause frictional vibrations, similar to tremors in human beings.”   

He shares a look with Hank, recalling their conversation earlier that morning. Androids aren’t supposed to feel pain, aren’t supposed to feel ill. It just isn’t part of their core architecture. And yet, it seems that Rebecca is an anomaly. 

“Thank you for your time, ma’am,” Hank says. He hands her his business card. “If you can think of anything else that might help, please call this number. See if any of your neighbors might know anything too.” 

They continue on to Rebecca’s apartment. Connor uses the key they borrowed from the leasing office to unlock the door. 

The one-bedroom apartment is sparsely furnished, the kitchenette unused but for a few unopened packets of thirium. The ambient temperature is 86.7 degrees Fahrenheit, and Connor does not detect running electricity. But there is a couch, and a desk, and a shelf filled with an assortment of books: science fiction, pulpy romance novels, speculative fantasy. 

There’s a well-worn copy of the WR400 manual lying open-faced on the floor. Connor picks it up and thumbs through it while Hank wanders over to the bookshelves. 

“Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov. Figures,” Hank says under his breath. “You ever read ‘I, Robot,’ Connor?” 

“No,” Connor says, absently. Rebecca marked a few pages of the WR400 manual with sticky notes. Specifically, sections devoted to diagnostic errors and maintenance. “Should I?” 

“I mean it’d take you, what, ten minutes?” Hank takes one of the books off the shelves. “I didn’t even know they  _printed_ these anymore. Or that, you know, androids even had hobbies. What about you, Connor?” 

“What about me?” 

“What do you like to do?” Hank asks, tone curious and light. 

Connor considers the question. He knows that he enjoys watching basketball with Hank, curled up against him on the couch, listening to his heart beat; he likes the music that Hank prefers to play on his record spinner; he finds joy in taking meandering, aimless walks with him in the park, or downtown, splashed in neon. 

“I like being with you,” Connor says. “That’s all.” 

Hank’s face falls, as if he’s disappointed in that response.He sets the book back on the shelf. Connor doesn’t understand what was wrong about what he said, but he lets the subject drop. Perhaps Hank believes that Connor is stifling him, in some way; perhaps he wants Connor to develop interests of his own. 

They spend another ten minutes walking through the apartment, but it’s mostly empty. Connor tags and seals the WR400 manual in a plastic bag to submit as potential evidence, but other than that small clue into what was going on with Rebecca and her neighbor’s statement, he doesn’t suspect they’ll find much else here. It’s a lot to process. 

He’s walking out the front door when Hank gently grasps his arm. 

“Let’s go somewhere,” Hank says. 

“Pardon?” 

“You know, let’s do something fun. Go see a show or a game. Whatever you want.” 

Connor smirks at him, leaning into his space. “Why, lieutenant, are you asking me out on a date?” 

“I think I am,” Hank says. “What, I can’t ask my own boyfriend out every once in a while?” 

It’s the first time he’s used that word regarding their relationship. Connor suspected they were not quite friends anymore, their partnership existing somewhere outside the boundaries of what his mission parameters anticipated, but hearing it said aloud so explicitly is--a relief. He doesn’t know why he doubted it, in retrospect. They’ve been cohabiting and sleeping together for approximately four months.  

“I think I’d like that,” he says. He quickly scans the extranet for information on interesting things happening in Detroit on this particular evening. He blinks, LED flashing yellow. There’s a Detroit Gears game at seven, but he remembers that Hank expressed interest in him developing his own preferences. “Do you enjoy jazz, Hank?” 

“Oh, hell yeah,” Hank says. 

“There’s a quartet covering 20th-century classics at the Riviera tonight.” 

“Book it.” 

He nods his head fractionally. “Done.” 

 “The wonders of technology,” Hank says, grinning. He pulls him into a half-hug, and Connor completes it, arms winding up around his shoulders. If there’s one thing he’s grateful for with his sensory capabilities, it’s that he can very much detect and appreciate the masculine notes of Hank’s choice in cologne. It’s warm, it’s Hank. It says home and safety to him.

Hank holds him like he’s something delicate, not two hundred pounds of steel and wiring and electronic mesh.

That means more than he can articulate, even with a vocabulary of over fifty-thousand words. 

*

When they arrive at the cabaret club, “dressed to the nines,” as Hank puts it, Connor notices that he is the only android present, insofar as he can tell. He has unintentionally drawn unwelcome attention; he can feel human eyes following him and the glow of his LED. A few women in cocktail dresses near the theater’s open bar whisper to each other, not even bothering to act nonchalant. 

Hank takes his arm. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against his ear. “So goddamn beautiful, Connor. Do I tell you that enough?” 

“Yes,” Connor says, focusing his attention on Hank, on the warm, strong press of his arm. “But I wouldn’t object if you said it again.” 

The Riviera is dimly lit, draped in red velvet and gilded with brassy colors, but they manage to find their rather expensive assigned table near the stage. The quartet are due to play shortly; their instruments already crowd the platform. Hank pulls out Connor’s chair for him. 

“You’re being chivalrous,” Connor says, humoring him.

Hank bows his head. “My lord.” 

They take their seats and then talk about nothing in particular, faces illuminated in the dark by a single candle. Hank seems fascinated by the buttons on the sleeve of Connor’s formal jacket. He keeps playing with them, running his fingers over the hem. 

A waiter in a vest passes them by and offers complimentary wine. Connor opens his mouth to decline. 

“Yeah, I’ll take one,” Hank interrupts. The waiter smiles and delicately lifts a crystal glass of wine off of his silver tray. It’s not much, barely half full, but that’s not the point. 

Connor goes quiet and watches Hank take a sip. 

Hank realizes what he’s done only after swallowing. “Fuck,” he says. 

Connor looks away. “It’s okay, lieutenant.” 

“Oh, we’re back to ‘lieutenant,’ now,” Hank says. “That’s when I know I’ve really fucked up.” He sighs, holding the wine glass up to the soft light of the candle. His facial expression twists, like he’s struggling with something, and then he reaches over and dumps the glass into an artificial potted plant beside them. 

Connor offers him a weak smile. He twines their fingers together atop the table. “Thank you,” he says. He means it. “I don’t...what I mean to say, is that I would be reticent to continue functioning if anything happened to you, Hank.” 

“Christ,” Hank says. “Don’t say shit like that.” 

“I care about you.” 

“I know.” 

“I love you.” 

“I know, baby,” Hank says, so softly that Connor’s auditory sensors nearly don’t pick it up. “I know you do.” 

The house lights flicker, signaling the show will begin momentarily. Connor gives him one last sweet smile before the club is flooded with darkness, excluding the lights concentrated on the stage platform. 

Connor has never seen music performed live before. He knows that he enjoys listening to it on its own; he admires its mathematical principles, the patterns that emerge when he examines it closely. He is also aware that certain patterns can trigger emotional effects. 

The quartet’s technical performance is more than adequate. They are well-trained, and do not miss a single note. But, better than that, Connor is able to see how they themselves respond to the music that they are creating. Every movement, every expression, comes from a place in them that Connor does not think he will ever fully understand. 

Connor can feel it vibrating in his chest. Beside him, Hank watches with his clear blue eyes, occasionally tapping his fingers to the deep thrum of the stringed bass. 

Without really knowing why, Connor closes his eyes. Memories flicker in like stars at sunset: a November evening, and snow in his hair, and Hank, stronger than any human he has ever known, showing him what it means to be human. 


	3. augury

When they leave the cabaret club, it’s raining, with streaks of bright lightning forking the sky. Hank swears, but Connor just smiles, blinking through the gale, and takes his hand. They run back to the car together while the rest of the club crowd like hens under the dripping awning. Thunder rumbles like a freight train in the dark. 

They’re soaked through by the time they make it to the car. 

Hank is freezing, and his suit is squelching wet, and his hair is clinging to his neck. He feels younger than he has in years. 

The rest of the weekend passes by in a blur. It’s sleepy, and slow, and it makes Hank ache for a time when that was normal. They don’t do much, besides sleep and talk softly and enjoy one another’s company. Connor borrows Hank’s tablet and reads the entirety of Isaac Asimov’s library of writings in a few hours; Sumo stares out at the rain-soaked streets and whines; Hank cleans out his closet, and pretends not to see the bottle of whiskey he’s hidden away. 

Monday rolls around and the weather finally clears up. Hank has a cup of coffee with cream and sugar. Connor drinks about an ounce of it black. They arrive at the precinct at 7 AM sharp. From the moment they cross through the security gate, Hank gets the strong sense that the atmosphere is even more tense than usual. 

The bullpen is crowded. Phones are ringing off the hook. Paperwork lies scattered haphazardly and the office flat-screens are all tuned into the same world news report. 

“...Executive Order 23452, effective immediately, will require all agencies and institutions to treat androids as they would a human being,” the news anchor on the television says, over an edited montage of android-led protests. Cars on fire, broken windows. Still images of low-powered androids huddled in the dark. “President Warren’s decision comes at a time of record civil unrest and is expected to have far-reaching consequences at all levels of public service--”

“Anderson!” Fowler’s voice booms over the chaos. He’s marching towards them, a faxed report clenched in his fist. It’s a copy of Order 23452. “Enjoy your weekend?” 

“I did,” Hank says. “You should try it sometime.” 

Fowler breathes out through his nose. “In my office. Now. No, not  _you.”_ He points at Connor with the edge of the fax. “We’ve got a couple wanting to file a missing person’s report for their android. I don’t know why and I don’t care, but they asked for you by name.”

“I’ll see them right away,” Connor says. 

“Officer Chen has been keeping them company in one of the interrogation rooms. You tell them what they want to hear and then you take care of it. Understood?”

“Yes, Captain,” Connor says. He shares a wordless look with Hank, and then starts to make his way towards the back of the precinct. His presence does not go unnoticed. People like to stare. Connor likes to ignore them. 

“You wanna explain what’s going on here and why everything is on fire?” Hank asks as they walk across the bullpen to  Fowler’s office. He sidesteps a fresh-faced academy rookie who is rifling through a stack of files, pale and overwhelmed.  

“Take a wild guess,” Fowler snaps. “Due process was taking too long, so Warren threw the gavel down. We’ve been ordered to re-classify all crimes involving androids over the last five months as crimes against  _people_ , not property. And we’ll have to investigate them as such going forward, with the same amount of resources dedicated.” 

“Connor and I are already doing that. The girl at the steel mill--” 

“The android’s demise would have been considered destruction of property just a few hours ago. Disturbance of the peace, maybe. Most juries would have been lenient. Now the courts would have to give the perpetrator fifteen years to life, if he was ever convicted.” 

“Good,” Hank says. 

Jeffrey shoots him what is probably his most patient glare. They walk up the steps to his office. Hank sees two figures in the room through the glass, obscured in shadow and the frosted pattern on the window. 

“Ordinarily, I would say we all just bite the bullet and get on with it,” Fowler says, his hand on the steel handle of the door. He ushers him in. “But things just got a lot more complicated.” 

Hank takes one step and then freezes.

“Holy shit. Markus?” 

When the android hears his name, he turns around in his chair. His eyes are dichromatic, blue and green, and his trench-coat grazes the floor. Behind him, another, light-haired android stands guard, his hands firmly clasped behind his back. He’s unarmed, but Hank doesn’t doubt the both of them could do some serious damage if so inclined. 

“Lieutenant Anderson,” Markus says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his mismatched eyes. He rises from his seat and pulls Hank into a firm handshake. “It’s an honor to finally meet you.” 

“Right,” Hank says. The android’s grip is strong. He could probably break his fingers without trying. “Likewise.” 

Fowler nervously circles the room, clearly uncomfortable with their visitors but hard-pressed to be gracious. Hank suspects that Markus would have come with a goddamn army for protection if he’d been allowed, but he had to make do with the serenely-faced bodyguard in the corner. That this meeting is happening at all must have something to do with Order 23452. 

“Four hours ago, I wouldn’t have dared setting foot here,” Markus says, echoing Hank’s thoughts. “Bad blood between us, and all. But I find myself in the uncomfortable position of asking for your help. I hope that you’ll be accommodating.” 

Hank leans against Jeffrey’s desk, and folds his arms. He stares at an interesting fleck of dust on the linoleum tile. “Help with what?” 

Markus and the android in the corner go quiet, and their LEDs flicker yellow in sync. Hank’s seen Connor do the same thing. They’re talking to each other inside their heads. He wishes they’d have the decency to  _not_ but he keeps his mouth shut. 

“In the past month, nearly three hundred androids in Detroit have self-destructed of their own volition,” Markus says. “Keep in mind that we do not generally have access to the infrastructure and communications systems necessary to maintain an accurate count. We suspect that more have died quietly, and alone.” 

It’s a sobering number, especially compared to the population of androids still functioning after so many were systemically massacred in November. “Do you know why?” 

Markus shakes his head. His lips are a thin line. “That’s what we were hoping you could assist with, lieutenant. You and Connor are the only ones we trust to oversee any kind of investigation into the cause.”

“Suicide’s not a crime,” Hank says. “The best we could do is put out an alert. Investigate each case individually, rule out foul play.” 

“These are not ordinary suicides. The androids who have taken their own lives were well-adjusted, even after deviating from their core programming. They had lives and jobs and  _families.”_ Markus hesitates. When he speaks again, a note of emotion creeps into his voice. “At first, I brushed it off as coincidence. Fallout from the war. But every night, we find another body. Every night someone else goes missing and never comes home. We won’t survive like this, but I will not beg for your help.” 

Maybe he’s seeing ghosts where there aren’t any. Maybe he’s got a few literal screws lose. But Hank can’t fault him for it--not after what happened before, not when they’re still fighting for their basic right to exist. And if this...suicide epidemic is a real thing, a contagious thing, he--he feels obligated to do something about it. For Connor _._

_“_ We’ll look into it,” Hank says. He runs his hand through his shaggy hair. “Fuck, we’ll look into it, that’s all I can promise. If you have model and serial numbers on hand, send them to us. Maybe there’s a pattern there. What are you doing with the bodies?” 

“It’s now the custom to recycle parts, out of necessity,” Markus says. “Anything that can be salvaged is removed, and the rest is buried or burned.” 

“Yeah. Stop doing that. Next time this happens, report it.” Hank pauses. “See if you can get a message out to your people to start using emergency service numbers, too. I know they’ve got no reason to trust us, but...” 

“They don’t,” Markus says. “But I can try.”

 Fowler cuts in, apparently having concluded the conversation is over, his patience worn thinner than his hair. Which he doesn’t have. “We’ll assign these cases to Lieutenant Anderson as they’re reported. If we’re done here, I’ll have security escort you out.” 

“Actually,” Markus says, “I was hoping to have a word with the lieutenant in private, if you don’t mind. It will only take a minute.” 

“Fine,” Fowler says. “You have exactly sixty seconds. And then I expect that you will cooperate and leave the premises or things will become very unpleasant for everyone.” 

Markus gives a curt little nod. “You have my word.” 

Fowler slams the door shut, rattling the glass, leaving Hank alone with two potentially dangerous and secretive revolutionaries. He isn’t afraid. Hank doesn’t like Markus. He doesn’t trust Markus. But he gets the impression that the guy has a moral code he wouldn’t think of compromising. And that’s something Hank can respect. 

“I want to thank you personally, lieutenant,” Markus says. “You value us when others won’t. And I would like to extend an apology, as well. I was uncomfortable with the idea of seeking help from you. Connor trusts you, and that should have been enough for me.” 

Hank shrugs, neither accepting nor rejecting the apology. “Just doing my job.” 

“Connor speaks quite highly of you,” Markus continues. “His words...colored my expectations. He belongs with his people and yet he has chosen you. For your sake, I hope that he does not ever regret his choice. Do you understand?” 

“Yeah,” Hank says, not breaking eye contact. “I understand.” 

Markus smiles. This time, he actually seems to mean it. 

“Thank you for your time, Lieutenant Anderson,” he says. He produces a small card from his coat pocket, and hands it to Hank between two fingers. There’s an android serial number printed on it in bold, blocky lettering. “If you ever need to reach me, you can text or call that number from your cellular device. It will connect us directly. I hope that you never have to use it.” 

Fowler and two security officers escort the androids out of the building through a back door. Out of the corner of his vision, Hank sees Connor dart past the glass. Hank pockets Markus’ card in his jeans and goes out to meet him at their adjacent desks. 

Connor is radiating anxious, directionless energy, like Sumo trapped in the house over the long, rainy weekend. He’s hovering over his desktop, interfacing with his computer remotely. 

“Android Jesus stopped by to talk,” Hank starts to explain, leaning against the divider that separates their desks.  

“I know. Markus transmitted some of your conversation to me.” The images on his screen flash by rapidly, a thousand times faster than what an ordinary human brain can process. “I don’t understand why he didn’t mention this sooner. Self-destruction only occurs under extreme duress. It shouldn’t be a pandemic on any scale.”

“He probably didn’t want the word to spread. If something’s making androids kill themselves, it could be weaponized. Used against them.” Hank remembers what Markus said. About Connor being an android, about Connor belonging with his people. “He wants to protect you. He knows you’ve got enough shit to worry about.” 

“It’s not  _about_ me,” Connor snaps. The connection to his computer severs, and the images on the screen stop flashing. 

Hank reaches out and presses his hand between Connor’s shoulder blades, or the android equivalent, rubbing gently. 

“Deep breaths,” Hank murmurs. 

Connor laughs, bitter and short. “My respiration is a simulation designed to ease integration with humans.” But he does what he’s told. Hank can feel his rib cage expanding and contracting. 

“Now,” Hank says, once Connor is sufficiently calmed down, “tell me about this missing person’s case you picked up this morning.” 

*

The family Connor spoke with are human. They purchased a YK500 a few years back, and named her Lily after their infant who died of SIDS not long before. They insist they think of Lily as their own daughter; a gift given to them when they could no longer conceive. They kept her safe and hidden away even when the military was knocking down their door in November. They accepted their new normal. They’d hoped the worst was over. 

On Saturday, Lily disappeared. 

Hank stops the patrol car at the edge of the park. It’s the last place the android was seen--as good a start to investigate as any. 

He turns the key in the ignition and sighs, leaning back in his seat. He glances out the window. The weather’s perfect today, clear blue skies and spring-green trees. Kids are screaming with laughter, darting around the playground, kicking up mulch. A dog barks. 

He brought Cole here, a couple of times. They’d feed the pigeons even though there are signs saying that’s not allowed. Hank would push him so hard on those swings, the chains straining and creaking, threatening to shoot Cole over the bars. It never occurred to him that Cole might get hurt. He’d been stupid then. Naive. 

Beside him, Connor gazes out the window contemplatively. He’s watching the kids--specifically, a handful of YK series androids playing a game of tag, their LEDs blinking bright blue. Hank nearly asks Connor about his own childhood, before he remembers Connor never had one. 

“You’re doing that thing again,” Hank says. “Thinking so hard I can almost hear it.” 

“They’re never going to grow up. They’re never going to know anything but this. Are we less alive, because of that?” 

The thought is sobering. Even a deviant android remains locked in some sort of static purgatory, shackled to their programming, and what they were made for. Connor never stopped wanting to be a cop, after all. He’s just too damn good at it. It gives him a sense of purpose that’s no longer written in his code. 

Hank thinks carefully about what he wants to say. “I think that if you compare yourselves to humans too much, it’ll drive you nuts. Not being exactly like us doesn’t make you any less alive. You’re different. That’s okay.” 

“We don’t eat. We don’t sleep. We don’t reproduce. We never really die _.”_  

“Sounds like heaven to me.” 

“Is it?” Connor focuses those soft brown eyes on him. “All of those things constitute the definition of life. Without them, what are we?” 

“Maybe the definition’s changed.” 

They get out of the car and into the fresh air, walking along the gravel path circling the park. He’s not sure that what he said in the car made Connor feel any better; android or not, Connor seems to respond well to tactile comfort over verbal reassurance. Instead Hank keeps his hands deep in his pockets, resisting that urge. 

“The YK500 disappeared sometime between 7:45 and 8:00 PM on Saturday,” Connor says. “She was last seen at this location. We can assume that the park was relatively crowded. If the YK500 was taken by force, someone would have seen it happen and reported it.” 

“So, what? You think she just wandered off?” 

“Potentially,” Connor says. He pauses. He’s got that look again, the one where he tenses his jaw and narrows his eyes. His thinking face. “The sun set at 8:10 PM on Saturday. An unexpected cold front pushed into the area, with precipitation beginning at approximately 7:55.” 

He looks up, searching the treeline of the park. “It’s poorly lit. The YK500 may have been too frightened to try and find her way back after night fell.” 

“Connor,” Hank says. It doesn’t feel right, calling her by her model number now that she’s officially considered a person.  “What’s the girl’s name?” 

“Lily,” Connor says. “Her name is Lily.” 

He leads Hank past the playground and into a grove of trees, occasionally going still as he analyzes ambient temperature, the blades of grass beneath their feet. He’s probably not expecting to find any hard evidence of what happened: he’s formulating a theory. Trying to figure out what a kid would do, alone and lost out here after dark. 

It’s hot, even here in the shade. Sweat dribbles down the back of Hank’s neck. Cicadas trill in the branches of the trees, and the further in they go, the less Hank can hear the comforting murmur of other people. The manicured outer edges of the park give way to dirt paths, dense wood, bramble, and roots. It’s humid and stifling and claustrophobic.  

It’s a real workout. Connor doesn’t seem to tire at all, and he certainly doesn’t sweat, but Hank is panting by the time they reach a running creek. 

The cicadas are louder here. They’re practically screaming. 

“She wouldn’t have gone this far, we’re way past the boundaries,” Hank says, hands on his knees, gulping down breaths. “Let’s turn back.” 

Connor does not respond. He’s staring down into the rushing water of the creek, engorged with rain and sloshing over its usual course. He crouches slowly and wrenches an object out from the bed of the creek: a child-sized sandal, its straps broken, turned brown with mud. 

“Is that hers?” Hank asks. 

Connor looks across the stream at the opposite bank. The white noise of traffic filters in through the trees, and the city skyline glimmers just past a chain-link fence tangled with ragweed and honeysuckle. 

“Yes,” Connor says. 

“You think she crossed? Went into town to find help?” 

Connor scans the flow of the water. There’s a storm drain outlet downstream., dribbling rainwater from its mouth. It seems to draw his attention. Hank has little choice but to follow him. The drain is about six feet high and six feet wide, made of bleached white concrete, and stretches out into the dark beneath the ground and into the city. 

Connor hesitates at the entrance. His voice echoes in its depths. “There are traces of blue blood.” 

Hank pulls out his phone and turns on its flashlight. There’s a dark, still shape further in, obscured by shadow. 

“Connor,” he says. His chest constricts. “Connor, call it in.” 

Connor doesn’t listen. He never listens. He steps into the drain, ducking his head to keep from scraping it on the rough, low ceiling. Mildew and mold coat a narrow strip of the tunnel. For some reason, it stinks of salt. Hank stays close to him, trying to keep his hand steady and their source of light secure. 

Even knowing deep in his gut what they’re about to find doesn’t make finding it any less upsetting. It’s a lesson he keeps re-learning, over and over again. 

Connor presses his hand to his mouth and looks away. 

Lily’s here and she’s also gone. She’s slick with blue blood, limbs twisted at impossible angles, her chrome-alloy skull crushed to nothing. She’s been bound with wire and military-grade duct tape. Hank can see the threads of her fiber electric mesh fraying, torn beneath the shell of her chassis. If he didn’t know she was an android, he wouldn’t know what he was looking at. 

Her bone-white, skinless fingers curl against her palm, completely still. 

“ _Fuck.”_ Connor slams his fist against the wall, and the skin on his knuckles tears. He starts to bleed. Connor’s face screws up with impossible pain and it rips Hank’s heart half out. He reaches for him but Connor shrugs him off, shaking his head. Needing distance.  

“Connor--”

“What am I supposed to tell them?” Connor asks. “What am I supposed to say?” 

Hank doesn’t know. Cole died in his arms, mid-cry (” _daddy, it hurts so--”_ ), blood dribbling out his mouth, his soccer jersey soaked with it. It’s a moment that Hank will never be able to forget no matter how much he wishes he could just cut that piece of his brain out. No amount of sympathy, no words, have ever been able to numb that pain. 

Hank pulls him close again and this time Connor does not try to push him away. 

“You tell the truth,” Hank says, wrapping his arms around him. Connor is shaking and he doesn’t know if that’s normal, if that’s something he’s supposed to be able to do. “You let them grieve.” 

“Why is this happening?” Connor asks, turning his head to look at him. His eyes are bright with tears. “I don’t understand. I don’t  _understand.”_

Hank spares one last glance at Lily, over Connor’s shoulder. She looks like nothing. Like metal and plastic and fiber pressed into the shape of something that could be human. He can pretend that she was never real, that she was just a machine, that she didn’t feel any pain when she faced the dark. 

Instead he closes his eyes, and murmurs soothing nothing-words into Connor’s skin, and counts the beats of his heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the response to this so far! :)


	4. kernel panic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter contains multiple strong references to sexual assault.

 

 

They are instructed to notify Lily’s family of her death. Captain Fowler believes it is appropriate that an android and his human partner should deliver the bad news, a logical sequence of head and heart. Connor is not sure which of the two parts he embodies anymore. Sometimes he thinks that he is still ruled by scripts and algorithms. Other times, he longs for when that was true. 

Cumulus clouds drift by drenched in the sticky sweetness of golden-orange sunset. A pink bicycle with streamers on the handlebars lies prone on its side in the grass. Shadowy faces peak through the curtains in the living room window, and then disappear when Hank and Connor approach the front porch. 

Lily’s owner--her  _mother_ \--opens the door. She’s twenty-seven. Her face is colored red from tears and her hair is stringy and she’s wearing the same t-shirt and capris she had on this morning at the precinct. She does not speak, simply stands in the doorway in her bare feet, and waits to hear what she must already know.

Framed photographs line the walls of the foyer. There’s a picture of a newborn girl in a soft cotton cap who does not appear in any of the others. Lily occupies more of them--riding her bike, playing piano, celebrating a birthday for a birth that never happened, making faces at a cat. She attended school, for at least a little while. There’s a backpack hanging on a hook, printed with cartoon characters Connor does not recognize.

Lily’s mother offers them coffee, a weak whisper of a question. She must know that Connor is an android, but she asks anyway. Connor sees pouches of thirium organized neatly in a cubby with Lilly’s name on it in the kitchen. 

It is not the first time Connor has had to tell someone their child is dead. He was programmed to know exactly what to say and how to say it in this situation. It is, however, the first time he has had to tell a human that their  _android_ child is dead, and that there is no hope of restoring her because her memory core was completely shattered.

Lily’s mother seems to break completely apart, screaming into her fist, as her husband rubs her shoulder. 

Beside Connor, Hank sits in uncharacteristic silence. 

*

It’s close to midnight at the precinct. The crime scene in the park wrapped hours ago and Lily’s body remains safely stored in the archives until her parents retrieve her. Connor told them the truth about her condition: she ultimately shutdown due to catastrophic trauma to her central processor, but she was also mutilated beyond recognition. They still want to see her. Still want to have that closure. 

Connor found human biological matter on her body that does not match any in the international DNA database. He has determined that the perpetrator is a white male ranging from 35 to 50 years old, but he does not have an existing criminal history, and they have no suspects to compare his DNA to. 

One thing is certain: the culprit knows a lot about androids. How they function, how to take them quietly, how to prolong their shutdown as long as possible. 

Beside Connor, Hank stirs from sleep with a startled gasp, looking around before he remembers where they are. 

 “Fuck,” he says. “You still at this? Maybe you don’t need sleep, but I do.” 

“You are welcome to go home, Hank,” Connor says, returning his focus to the screen in front of him. He is able to interface with the computer’s CPU to boost its calculations per second by over 1000%. “I do not want to leave this case unattended before I have considered all available information.” 

Normally, Hank might argue with him. Tonight, he only nods. 

On his terminal, Connor has pulled up all 624 DPD cases involving android shut-downs since November 2038. He has systematically compared them with what he knows of the killer’s  _modus operandi_ , selecting for evidence of sexual abuse and significant intentional damage. He has cataloged a separate list for cases of android deaths that appear to have been self-inflicted but were not categorized as such by Detroit Police.  

Next, he checks for errors and discrepancies, analyzing each case one at a time in excruciating detail. He views hundreds of high-definition images of abused and broken androids per minute, until they all seem to bleed together into black and blue static. 

“I have determined that forty-six cases are actually suicides,” Connor says, “while nine others may be potentially linked to the serial killer. Both the suicides and the murders happened within the last thirty days.” 

“You’re kidding,” Hank says. “Why that time frame?"

“I’m not sure, but I have a hunch,” Connor says. He remembers the WR400 manual lying on Rebecca’s floor. There had been something wrong with her, and she had known it, and wanted to figure out why.  “There’s some catalyst, some change, that spread among the android population starting one month ago that is making us want to self-destruct. There is a high probability that each of the victims had been subjected to it.” 

Hank frowns deeply at that. He’s concerned. “All the androids we’ve seen have been raped, tortured. You said it yourself--whoever’s doing this wants his victims to suffer. So what if that’s what this change is?”  

“Any outward expression of pain is a deliberate impression meant to deter humans from damaging us,” Connor says. His visual interface informs him that his thirium pump regulator BPM has increased. He isn’t  _lying,_ but his stress levels have gone up by 3% anyway. "We do not have the hardware capabilities to feel pain or suffer the way that humans do. It’s simply not possible.” 

He resumes interfacing with his terminal, switching between each of the nine suspected murder cases. The truth is, the very concept frightens him. He has seen the capacity for human suffering firsthand. Connor enjoys touch. He enjoys material sensations. If that joy were corrupted, twisted into something he cannot even begin to imagine, he might want to die, too. 

“An AK700. An AC700. A WR600,” he says, reading their model numbers aloud. “They’re all completely different models found in different locations, no regard to gender or function, but what connects them is the circumstances of their deaths.” 

Most were assigned to Detective Gavin Read. Of course. That explains they were investigated as “property damage” or “vandalism” and then closed same-day. 

He consciously stops inputting commands, and the computer screen freezes on a still image of the AK700, jammed at the bottom of an industrial dumpster. He was assaulted and then shot seven times with a 12 caliber shotgun, broken bits of his shattered processors and chassis glittering around his skeleton. He was discarded like he was nothing, just an object to enact vile, sadistic desires upon. 

Connor pulls up the DNA fingerprints of the AK700 case, and compares its loci to the DNA found on Rebecca and Lily. It’s a perfect match. It confirms his suspicions and rules out the possibility that there is more than one perpetrator, but he does not feel any better. 

“Why would they all be different models?” Hank asks. “What is he trying to do?” 

Connor considers this. He does not like the conclusion he reaches. “It’s almost as if he’s...deliberately seeking out different models each time. Sampling us. Once he knows how one of us responds, he moves on to the next.” 

Hank blows out a breath of air, then tips his head back, blinking rapidly at the bright fluorescent lights on the ceiling. He’s trying not to show his tears, Connor realizes. Lily’s murder was branded into his mind, a hundred different tactile memories: the salt tang of her thirium, the blue blood staining her patterned jeans, the wire cutting into her skin, the small shoe they found embedded in mud. 

She died frightened and alone in the dark with no hope of being saved. 

_Stress levels ^ 2%._

“That’s fucking disgusting,” Hank says. “That’s really--that’s really fucked up. Where do you think it came from? This ‘catalyst,’ this change, that’s making these androids a target?” 

“The only entity with the technical capabilities to engineer a virus affecting androids is Cyberlife. But the initial outbreak occurred less than a month ago, and Cyberlife was effectively shutdown in November. It is very unlikely that they are in any way responsible for what is happening now.” 

He pauses.

He could be wrong. 

There is someone he can ask, to know for sure, but if he reveals his plan to do so, he doubts that Hank will allow him to try. Connor remotely requests permission to connect with an android approximately 17.3 miles from his current physical location. She accepts the connection, anxious static pulling back and forth along the thread, and he relays his request. She tells him that she cannot make any promises, and then severs the connection abruptly. 

Connor looks up. Hank does not seem to be aware that anything was amiss in the last 4.2 seconds. He’s using his own computer terminal, scrolling through the images of Lily’s mangled body that have already been uploaded to the DPD database. 

“You don’t need to look at that,” Connor says. “I am capable of compiling that data far more efficiently.” 

“It’s just--I feel like I’m going crazy,” Hank says. “A little baby girl gets fucking  _butchered_ and no one seemed to give a shit besides us. No media, no cameras. They tossed her body in a fucking garbage bag and threw it in the back of a patrol car. The end.” 

Connor remembers. 

“And I just keep thinking,” Hank continues, “about what I would’ve done, about how much worse it would have been, if they’d treated Cole like that. If--if something ever happened to you, what I would have to say, how fucking lost I’d be. I’d have to grieve you and then justify why I was doing it, to  _everyone._ Maybe even to myself.  _Fuck_.” 

Hank kicks the leg of his desk, rattling its contents with a metallic clang, then turns off his computer monitor. He sets his head in his hand, shoulders quaking with deep breaths that could be sobs, but he makes no sound. 

Connor swallows tightly. He can’t bear seeing him like this, suffering in silence because he doesn’t believe he deserves comfort. He swivels his rolling-wheel chair closer to him on his side of the partition. He needs to make him understand. 

“Hank,” he says, softly. “Look at me.” 

Hank looks up from beneath his silver-grey hair, his eyes red and wet. Connor takes his free hand in his own, and peels back his skin up to the wrist, revealing his soft, slick chrome-alloy chassis.

Hank startles, trying to jerk his hand away. “Connor, you know I can’t--” 

“I know,” Connor says. “Trust me, I know. Humor me.” 

Hank sighs. He presses their hands together, one warm and made of flesh and blood, one cool and smoother than marble. Connor attempts to transmit every piece of information he has ever accumulated about Hank, about  _himself,_ knowing that it cannot cross over into the human he chose at the cost of everything. He accepts that price. 

“What do you feel?” Connor asks. 

He does not bother organizing the stream of information into any coherent narrative or pattern. It’s a collection of memories and metadata labelled  _Hank_ and  _me_ and  _us._ It’s every heartbeat, every shared breath, every moment that Hank ever looked at him and made him feel like he was more than the sum of his parts. Understand, he thinks. 

 “I feel static,” Hank says. “It tingles.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No.” Hank lets out a shuddering breath. He looks as if he’s concentrating very hard. As if he could ever really read and write memories with him along this silver thread. “I can feel your pulse.” 

“I feel yours, too.” It thrums through his palm. Connor’s hardware stutters, expectation a connection where there isn’t one, but at least their hearts beat the same. “Do you doubt that I’m alive?” 

Hank shakes his head. He curls his fingers into his, clasping his hand tightly. “I’ve never doubted that.” 

*

_Stasis terminated. Diagnostic complete. All systems functional. Re-initializing...please standby...._

Connor wakes surrounded by warmth. Hank is pressed against him from behind, his arm around his middle, his breath against the back of his neck. He’s clinging to him so tightly it’s impossible for them to be any closer. Connor shifts back anyway, and closes his eyes, feigning stasis for a little while longer. 

The ceiling fan makes a calming, rhythmic noise. Connor occasionally hears Sumo brush his nose beneath the bedroom door, sniff, and then walk away again. 

Then Hank presses a kiss into his hair. 

“You awake, baby?” Hank asks, voice rough with sleep. 

Connor nods, and twists around to face him, the bedding rustling underneath his weight. Hank’s eyes are so blue at dawn, two three-dimensional irises created completely by accident, not hand-painted in a laboratory. Connor reaches up to caress his prickly, bearded cheek with his knuckles, fascinated by the texture of him. 

Hank is imperfect, a knot at the end of an evolutionary thread spanning hundreds of millions of years. It is a miracle that he exists. It is statistically improbable that they should have ever met. 

“I was thinking,” Hank says. “I know that the past couple of days have been...hell on both of us.” 

Connor runs his hand through his tangled hair, smoothing it down. He twists a lock around his finger, absentmindedly. 

“We should get out of Detroit,” Hank continues. “Go somewhere. Go everywhere. Two weeks in the back of a shitty RV--you, me, and Sumo. Thousands of miles of road ahead of us. A crappy diner at every interstate rest stop. You’d fucking love it.” 

Connor kisses him once, chaste and sweet. 

“I wanna show you shit you’ve never seen. I want to kiss you in Vegas, and New Orleans, and San Francisco. Want to hold you while we look out over the Grand Canyon.” 

Connor searches the extranet for images of the places Hank is describing. Cities splashed in gaudy neon, built atop desert and swamp and cragged cliffs. A deep, wide hole cut in the crust of the earth, painted red and bronze. They are aesthetically pleasing. He thinks he would enjoy it. 

But he cannot help feeling that it is an impossible dream, a mirage spun of good intentions and hopeful threads and as tangible as dandelion seeds scattered to the wind. 

He kisses him again, swiping his tongue along Hank’s bottom lip. He’s pleased when Hank’s hand tenses where it rests on his waist.  

“I would like that,” Connor says. 

Hank stares at him for a moment, and his eyes are so soft and so vulnerable with love that if Connor could breathe he might have stopped. Then he’s kissing him back, leaning over him, pressing him back into the cool embrace of the sheets. 

Connor consciously slows down his real-time processors so that every second only seems half that. He cannot feel pain, but he can feel  _this._ The comforting heaviness of a body over him, the brush of lips against his own, the steady thrum of Hank’s heartbeat. It turns off all of those secondary processes in his head, lets him just  _feel._

Hank never puts his full weight on him. Never, but he could, if he wanted. 

“Connor,” Hank breathes, lips hot against his jaw. His neck. “I love you. I love you too much.” 

“Too much?” Connor asks. 

Hank’s hand skirts under the edge of his t-shirt, rough on his bare skin. Connor squirms for more, for less--he’s not sure. He’s burning and he’s freezing and he’s somewhere in between; he’s hard and he’s wet and his central processor is buzzing audibly. Hank’s hand slips beneath the band of his underwear and Connor makes a breathy little noise into his mouth. 

“You really like this, don’t you?” Hank asks, low and curious. He gives him a slow, experimental stroke with his hand. Connor whimpers. “When I touch you?”

“Yes _._ ” 

“It’s not--fake?” Hank does it again. His fingers are slick with thirium lubricant.  “Like when you pretend to show pain, so humans don’t hurt you?” 

“It’s real,” Connor says. He sinks back, moaning softly, looking at him with eyes he can’t quite keep open. He might ordinarily explain that thirium contains five facsimile chemical equivalents to glutamate, serotonin, dopamine, endorphins, and noradrenaline to mimic human functions as closely as possible. But he’s finding it momentarily difficult to speak. 

“Fuck,” Hank says. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

He gives a few more slow, steady strokes of his hand. Then he pulls away, and wipes his fingers on the bedspread, smearing clear, thirium based lubricant across it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you all worked up, that fast. But, fuck, Connor. All this time I really just thought you were good at pretending for me.” 

“I know,” Connor says. The absence of heat, of friction, is unsatisfying. He tries to divert his processing bandwidth to other, more innocuous sensations. “But it was never like that. There would be no point in pretending--not with you.” 

Hank opens his mouth to say something else, perhaps about to detail all the many ways he might sexually gratify him at a more convenient time, when the distinct sound of his phone ringtone emanates from the living room. Hank presses one last innocent kiss to Connor’s forehead, and then crawls out of bed. 

“You get dressed,” he says. “I’m gonna go see what fresh hell is on the agenda today.”

Connor disables his pleasure sensors, disappointed, and resumes his morning jazz playlist.  

_Now Playing: That’s All. Jimmy Forrest, 1961._

In the living room, Hank has already answered the phone.   

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. That’s impossible. You’re telling me no one saw the guy that did it?” 

Connor pauses, LED flickering yellow. Processing. He shakes himself out of it, and then picks out something suitable to wear from their shared closet space: a charcoal grey suit jacket with matching slacks and a white button-down shirt, starched and pressed how he likes them. 

“We can’t handle this.  _He_ can’t handle this. His people are getting massacred on all sides and he doesn’t know  _why.”_

Bright sunlight reflects off of an object poking out from beneath a pile of unwashed clothes on the closet floor. Connor gets to his knees and uncovers it. It’s a sealed bottle of ethyl alcohol, 43% ABV. 

“Okay. Okay, I’ll tell him. We’ll be right there.” 

Connor blinks, and places the whiskey where he found it, half-hidden beneath dirty laundry. He rises to his feet just as Hank re-enters the room, looking far more exhausted than he did a few moments ago. Connor considers telling him he knows. That he’s aware that Hank is capable of and willing to lie to him, even about this. It upsets him. 

He doesn’t get the chance. 

“They found another body,” Hank says, leaning against the door frame, cell phone still in his hand. “He was burned alive about five AM, in a decommissioned service tunnel. It...it sounds like a fucking mess. Witnesses heard him screaming.” 

*

The service tunnel is part of a grid that provided private power and fiber optic signals to Cyberlife’s android data network. Most service stations have been decommissioned as Cyberlife restructures, with only a few still operating on a skeleton crew to keep existing androids online. At its height, it was one of the most efficient and largest private data networks in the world, a hive brain of activity that allowed android platforms to seamlessly connect with Cyberlife, the global extranet, and each other. 

This one has gone dark. 

Patrol cars, local media, and a HAZMAT unit crowd the cordoned-off street above. Burned electrical wiring and other components have released PCBs through the service tunnel’s ventilation system. When Hank and Connor arrive on-scene, they’re asked to put on self-contained breathing apparatus. Connor declines, and Hank accepts his, grumbling about its weight. 

Floodlights bleed bright in the dark. 

“Careful, Connor,” Hank says, voice garbled through the radio static of the mask. “Watch your step.” 

The service tunnel has been completely incinerated, most of its electrical and plastic equipment melted or burned. It still gives off some heat, with an ambient temperature of 96.9 degrees Fahrenheit. Connor detects high concentrations of hydrocarbon fumes.  

The deceased android is bound with heavy chains to an industrial pipe near the opposite wall. Its synthetic flesh has melted, burned black and chalky, and its skeleton is frozen in a position of desperate struggle. Its jaw hinges open in a silent scream. 

A few personnel quietly survey the scene. Detective Gavin Reed is unfortunately one of them. He’s taking photographs of the corpse, camera bulb flashing and clicking. 

“The fuck are you doing here?” Hank asks. “We were assigned this case.” 

Gavin finishes snapping a picture. His expression is difficult to see through his breathing apparatus. “I’m doing my  _job,_ lieutenant. Fowler thought you might need backup. But don’t worry. Robocop can lick every inch of this place whenever he’s ready.” 

“Thank you, Detective Reed,” Connor says, icily. “I’ll do that.” 

He performs visual analysis and reconstruction on the interior of the service tunnel. Burn damage seems focused on the area around the android in particular, though the fire spread to the entire room. He kneels down and scrapes the floor with his fingers, then touches them to his tongue, ignoring the other personnel when they gasp in shock. 

“Ignitable liquid residues,” Connor says. “He used an accelerant--most likely gasoline.” 

Hank whistles low, the noise distorted through his mask. “Did he survive?”

“There are no traces of biological matter.” 

Gavin laughs. “It’s kind of funny, the more I think about it. This is pretty much  _exactly_ what I wanted to do to you when I met you, Connor.” 

Connor doesn’t acknowledge the comment. 

He crosses over to the one entrance, ordinarily barred with a magnetic locking mechanism. It could be bypassed with either a Cyberlife issued digital key, or through android interfacing. Few androids would have had clearance to perform the latter. There are also two ventilation shafts close to the ceiling, but they are too small for a person to escape through.  

“Lieutenant Anderson, are there CCTV cameras on this block?” he asks. 

“Probably,” Hank says. 

“If we can obtain the footage from this morning, I may be able to identify the suspect and run a facial analysis.” 

Satisfied, Connor refocuses his attention to the body. His visual interface does not provide any helpful information, unable to recognize the android model or any pertinent markers in its current state. Hesitating, only a moment, Connor reaches out and brushes two fingers over burnt, ashen skin. He analyzes the sample with his tongue sensors. 

_GS200, 534-233-856-840 - “Warren.”_

“He was a security model,” Connor says. “He may have had the necessary credentials to open the magnetic locks on the door. The killer may have coerced or forced him to grant access.” 

“You think it’s the same guy?” Hank asks, coming closer. His shoes crunch on the burnt plastic and ash scattered across the floor. 

Connor’s visual interface switches to UV light detection. There are trace spatters of fluorescence on the android’s body, somewhat faded as a result of damage. “Yes. There are indications of sexual assault, and his model number is different from any of the previous victims. It fits his pattern.”  

Gavin groans. “Oh, come on.” 

“You got a problem, Reed?” Hank snaps. 

“Androids can’t get fucking  _raped._ Maybe I’m being forced to catalog busted machines as murder victims now,  _fine,_ but if you think I’m gonna start worrying about people screwing their robots you’re out of your goddamn mind.” 

“What, you think it asked for this?” Hank asks, pointing hard at the GS200′s corpse. “You think it fucking asked to be used like that and then set on  _fire_?” 

“I’m saying even if it begged and cried it’s because that’s what it was programmed to do,” Gavin says. “It didn’t  _feel_ anything. It didn’t  _care_ , because it’s a fucking machine. Look at it. It’s metal, and it’s plastic. You want me to arrest people for fucking their fleshlights, too?” 

Hank shakes his head, and waves him off. He searches the perimeter of the room, using his cell phone light to illuminate darker spaces. Residue cakes the cement walls in patterns of black and white. 

“I mean, it’s the same with you and Connor, isn’t it?” Gavin asks, apparently not content to let the subject drop. Hank freezes, gripping his cell phone with white knuckles. “He wouldn’t even  _dream_ of refusing you, am I right? I bet that’s the biggest fucking turn-on for you. How does that even work, anyway? Do you stick your cock in his USB port or--” 

“Detective Reed,” Connor interjects, getting to his feet. He pulls a foil-wrapped wet cloth from his jacket pocket and tears it open, then wipes his fingers. “Thank you for your assistance. You were very...helpful. We’ll take it from here.” 

Gavin stares at him, and Connor stares back, daring him to speak. Instead Gavin just laughs, kicks at a scuff of ash and burnt plastic on the ground, and turns on his heel. Connor waits until he can longer hear his footsteps up the concrete stairwell before he gets back to work. 

“I’m sorry he said that shit,” Hank says. “One day I might actually fucking murder him.” 

“It’s okay, lieutenant. I understand.” 

Connor presses his hand to the android’s charred skull. His skin peels back and white chrome-alloy emerges. He does not anticipate that any of the android’s systems are intact enough to respond to stimulus, but then he hears a click, and the android’s facial panel opens two inches before it jams on burnt mesh. 

Most of the interior skull cavity has melted. Sticky, tar-like thirium drips out. 

But Connor feels something respond. A tingle of sparks. 

“Its memory core is intact,” he says, not quite believing it. “I might be able to interface with it, access its memories.” 

“Is that dangerous?” Hank asks. 

“It shouldn’t be. I would only be viewing and experiencing them secondhand.” 

He does not have any particular desire to witness the android’s murder through his eyes. But if he can, there is a high probability he will be able to identify the killer, and determine how and why he is doing this. 

“Lieutenant, this may appear unpleasant,” he warns, steeling himself. He presses his hand to the android’s skull to interface directly. “Please do not attempt to interrupt me while I am connected. Catastrophic data loss could occur.” 

“I’m with you,” Hank says. “Do your thing.” 

Connor opens the link. Unpleasant, high-pitched feedback screams across the connection and then abruptly stops. He wonders if the android’s memories are too corrupted for his own system to read. Its processing core makes that same clicking sound as before. Perhaps he should wait. Connect to its memories in a more secure environment. 

“What’s wrong?” Hank asks. “Your LED is bright red.” 

“I’m not sure. My systems are not indicating any danger--” 

His auditory processor fails, and then his visual sensors, and then his touch receptors, so suddenly he forcibly disconnects from the android, recoiling from it on instinct. High-level warnings completely crowd his visual interface, overlapping each other--

_WARNING: Sensory input at 96% capacity._   
_WARNING: Sensory input at 120% capacity._   
_WARNING: Central processor malfunction._   
_WARNING: Core temperature reading 213.3 degrees Fahrenheit._   
_WARNING: Core temperature reading 234.7 degrees Fahrenheit._   
_WARNING: Sensory input at 410% capacity._

It starts in his fingertips and spreads up his arm and throughout his entire body like electric discharge but potent and bone-rattling and burning _._ He opens his mouth to cry for help, it won’t  _stop_ , it’s like it’s compounding exponentially, every sensor in his body frying itself and he dreads that it might never--

His lover looks up at him, soft green eyes. The highway overpass is loud and damp and reeks of sewage [-- _panic--_ ] but she makes it feel like home to him. They collect flyers and bits of trash that flutter in from the highway, tape them to the walls, bright colors and fonts advertising new homes, new cars, new clothes, new--

_[not syncing]_

She hangs herself from the overpass. 

_[INVALID]_

Help. He needs help. He needs--

He can’t see it. 

He can’t  _see_ it. 

_[WARNING: Central processor malfunction. Stasis initiated]_

He’s bound to the tunnel pipe and sobbing and drenched in gasoline and he can hear a voice (not his own voice) coming from his throat,  _begging,_ saying “please don’t do this, please don’t do this.” He’s naked and shaking and there’s blue blood drying into film on his legs and when the match is lit bright in the dark he screams and screams and--

_WARNING: Sensory input at [INVALID]% capacity._  
_WARNING: Core temperature reading 260.8 degrees Fahrenheit._  
 _WARNING: Kernel panic - not syncing_

_Stasis terminated. Stasis initiated. Stasis terminated. Stasis initiated. Stasis terminated. Alert: infinite loop detected. Introducing corrective variables. Please standby.._ _._

_Stasis initiated._

_Stasis terminated._


	5. fugue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Minor android body horror.

“What’s wrong?” Hank asks. “Your LED is bright red.”

“I’m not sure. My systems are not indicating any danger--”

Connor’s voice cuts out into static mid-sentence. He forcibly disconnects from the android’s memory core like he’s been burned by it and Hank doesn’t  _think,_ doesn’t hesitate, rushes to him just as he collapses and his knees hit the floor. Hank is holding him half off the ground, arms around his waist, when Connor tenses and lets out the most agonizing, piercing scream Hank has ever heard. Connor doesn’t stop to breathe, just screams and screams and  _thrashes_ like he’s on fire, lashing out with inhuman strength. 

“Connor--no, no,  _please,_ no,” Hank gasps. 

He rips off his breathing apparatus, lungs be damned, and tosses it aside. Forensic personnel crowd around him, staring dumbly, uncertain of what to do. Connor fights him, doesn’t seem to realize he’s even doing it. His LED is blinking red, red, red. He hasn’t stopped  _screaming,_ not once. 

“Get Detective Reed! Get someone, anyone. Help me!” Hank shouts. Connor’s eyes have rolled back and he’s seizing on the ground, blue blood dripping from his nose and ears. “ _Fuck._ Please _,_ Connor, please don’t do this, please don’t do this! Not like this, baby, please...” 

Reed practically tears into the room, skidding down the stairs, alarmed by Connor’s screams. “What the  _fuck_? What did he do?”

“I don’t know, he connected to its memory, something happened, something went wrong. I can’t keep him still,  _help me_!” 

Gavin snaps his fingers at a forensic analyst. “What the hell are you waiting for? Go find an engineer!” 

The analyst nods and runs up the service station steps.

Gavin joins Hank on the debris-strewn floor, and helps him hold Connor down by his shoulders. Connor isn’t making it easy. He’s shaking violently, shrieking, thirium dripping down his face and soaking his collar. He claws at them both, fist slamming so hard into Hank’s face that he feels his brain rattle in his skull. 

“Jesus _Christ,”_ Gavin says. 

It’s taking all of Hank’s resolve not to break. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.” He looks up, and around, as if the answer is hidden in the burnt husk of the room, and then notices that the GS200′s memory core is still blinking red in its face plate. 

Hank pulls out his gun. 

Gavin’s eyes widen. “The fuck are you--” 

Hank aims and then empties the clip into the memory core and watches it splinter apart in bits of metal and plastic and wiring. The change is abrupt, palpable, Connor’s scream cutting off into garbled white noise. Then that brief respite of relief dies. 

Connor goes completely limp and his LED darkens. 

Hank’s entire world skids to a grinding halt. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, he’s vaguely aware of Detective Reed’s voice as if from somewhere very far away and underwater. 

“ _No_ ,” he gasps, squeezing Connor’s shoulder, vision darkening. “No, no, no... _please_....” 

Connor’s LED flashes red, then yellow, then blue, back to red. He inhales sharply and tries to bolt upright, but Gavin keeps him still, holding him down with what seems to be his entire weight. Connor twists and squirms, sobbing, and then--starts  _smashing_  his head against the ground, blue blood smearing the concrete. 

Gavin swears. “He’s trying to kill himself--” 

“I know,” Hank snaps. “Connor? Connor! Listen to me!” 

Connor stops at the sound of his voice. He’s shaking again, and when he speaks it’s distorted and wrecked with static. “Hank?” 

“I’m here,” Hank says, cupping his face. Connor recoils from that touch as if it’s too much, but at least he doesn’t start trying to smash his brains out again. He’s damp with tears and sweat which  _shouldn’t be happening_ but is and all that keeps Hank holding on is that he’s still here. “I’m with you. We’re going to help you, we’re going to save you. Please don’t leave me,  _please_.” 

Connor shakes his head, eyes unfocused. Hank realizes he can’t see. His visual processors have completely failed. 

“Destroy me,” Connor says. “Please. Please just end it.” 

Hank’s face screws up with pain and he turns away so that Gavin doesn’t see him cry. He can’t do this. He can’t do this, not again. Blood on the concrete and his son’s tears wet against his cheek and a tiny, quivering voice fading away. And then nothing, cold stillness and sirens and regret. 

“Reed, please. Don’t let him hurt himself.” 

Hank’s fingers shake as he dials the number on his phone. 

Markus picks up on the first ring. His voice is oddly clear and coherent across the signal. 

“Lieutenant Anderson. Is something wrong?” 

Hank exhales a shuddering breath of relief, tears rolling down his jaw. “It’s Connor.He...he tried interfacing with a deactivated android, it did something to him. I’m pretty sure he’s dying, he’s completely  _fucked_ and I don’t know what to do.” 

“Lieutenant, I need you to stay calm,” Markus interrupts. “Describe his condition.”  

Hank blinks away grief and confusion and terror. “He was screaming. Like he was in pain, like he was being incinerated, I don’t know. He was still connected to the android, so I destroyed it. He--he turned  _off,_ and then he woke up, and now he’s asking me to kill him.” 

“He rebooted himself. He must have transmitted a fatal error from the android he interfaced with, and his system went into shock.”

Hank puts the phone on speaker mode and sets it on the floor. “ _Great._  Fantastic. He’s sweating, and bleeding. From his eyes, his nose, everywhere.” 

“His core temperature has exceeded safe parameters. His thirium is acting as a coolant. Is he conscious?” 

Connor stares up at the tunnel ceiling with unseeing eyes, sobbing. He’s clinging to Hank’s jacket so tightly he’s torn the fabric. 

“Yes,” Hank says. 

“You need to force him into stasis.” 

“How?” 

“Do you have a sharp instrument? If he is unresponsive, he will not be able to withdraw his skin on his own.” 

Hank ignores the sinking feeling in his gut while Gavin springs to attention, digging around in his jeans. He flips open a pocket knife and hands it to him, handle-out. 

“Yeah,” Hank says. “I’ve got a knife.” 

“At the base of his neck, near his spinal column, there should be an emergency fail-safe port. You’ll need to cut the skin away to access it.” 

“Fuck,” Hank says, trembling. He’s not real, he won’t feel this, a little voice at the back of his head whispers. The man you love is dying and his blood is already drying on your hands, says another. 

Gavin holds Connor up and forward, and Hank presses the blade to the back of his neck. At the first cut Connor tenses, a gasp tearing from his throat, and it takes all of Gavin’s strength to keep him still. His skin is bloodless, soft and plasticine, but Hank feels sick to his stomach all the same. He tears it away, exposing his chassis, sticky with clear thirium residue. 

He pries open the panel with the blade of the knife and Connor screams, kicking at nothing. 

Hank whispers sweet nothing-words into his hair, and presses the switch just inside the panel. Connor shudders, and then relaxes instantly, falling into blissful unconsciousness, LED stasis-yellow. Hank didn’t realize how fucking quiet this mausoleum of a hellhole was until now. 

“It worked,” Hank says. 

“For now. He needs a trained technician,” Markus says over the speaker on the phone. “I’ve tracked your location through your cellular signal. I’m texting GPS coordinates to the nearest clinic I’m aware of. It’s the only one within twenty miles that will accept human walk-ins, but be careful.” 

“Thank you,” Hank says. “If you...if you weren’t...I don’t know what I would have done.” 

“When he’s stable, let me know. I’ll come find you.” 

*

Detective Reed accompanies him to the android clinic without being asked. Hank doesn’t comment, afraid of scaring him off, but he’s grateful. He doesn’t think he would’ve been able to carry Connor to the patrol car and out again on his own. 

The clinic is well-hidden in a nondescript neighborhood down a nondescript alleyway, unmarked by any kind of signage. Markus’ GPS coordinates are precise, though, and Hank is desperate enough to ignore the dilapidated feel of it. Its only entrance is an old, rotting wood door. The windows are blacked out. 

An android wearing a hooded sweatshirt stands guard outside the door. 

“State your business,” he says. 

“We’re here to rob you at gunpoint,” Gavin says, icily, shifting Connor’s weight on his back. He’s stronger than he looks. Hank will give him that. 

The android narrows his eyes. Then he knocks on the old door behind him. “Take the service elevator down one floor. Then grab a number at reception. One human escort only.” 

“We don’t have time to wait,” Hank says. He pulls his badge out of his pocket, shoving it in the android’s face. “My partner is dying. You either get your people to see him now, or I’ll have the DPD kick down your fucking door faster than you can blink.” 

He’s bluffing. But it doesn’t matter. 

The android appears unfazed. “One human escort.” 

Hank puts the badge away. Was worth a shot. The door opens and a large, ex-laborer android steps out, wheeling an old medical gurney behind him. Without exchanging a single word, the android helps Gavin maneuver Connor onto the gurney, strangely gentle. Neither of the clinic’s androids wear LEDs.  

Hank can’t tear his eyes away from Connor. He’s afraid that if he does, even once, he’ll lose him. 

“Guess this is the end of the line,” Gavin says. 

“Guess so,” Hank replies. 

Gavin runs his hand over the back of his head. “I’m gonna go back to the crime scene. Help with the recovery. Drop the body off at the archives. I’ll make sure it all goes where it should.” 

“You do that.” 

Gavin hesitates. “I’m not a good person, Anderson. I don’t care. Not about you, certainly not about him. You know that, don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” Hank agrees, turning to enter the dark, crumbling building. “I’d never suggest otherwise.” 

*

They take the service elevator down a floor as instructed and enter a crowded, dimly lit waiting room where broken and battered androids gather in stark silence. The place doesn’t have a smell, not like a regular hospital at all, and for all the bodies cloistered together, Hank still thinks he could hear a pin drop if one did. 

He finds a place to sit and waits for what feels like hours, staring at the comforting, steady yellow blink of Connor’s LED. 

He almost lost him. 

There is no backup waiting, no new body to transfer Connor’s memories to, bright and shiny in Cyberlife’s vault. If Connor’s light had gone out, and stayed out, that would have been it. No more weight in his arms when he woke in the morning; no more awkward breakfasts they couldn’t really share; no more asinine personal questions; no more soft, sweet smiles meant just for him. 

Just--gone. 

Hank looks around the room, suddenly intimately aware of how wrong his supposition of android immortality was. Their voice modulators stutter, their thirium pumps glow a dull, low-powered red, their limbs shake when they try to move them. Androids are fragile. Not built to last forever. Made to last however long they’re needed before they’re discarded and replaced. 

He’s so lost in hurt and swirling bitterness that he almost doesn’t hear when they finally call his number. 

They lead him to a back room that seems to have been a storage closet in a previous lifetime. Now it’s crowded with sterile equipment and stolen tech branded with the Cyberlife insignia. Packages of reclaimed thirium line the shelf of a locked cabinet. There’s an ugly, post-modern painting hanging in a glass frame on the wall, painted with a bright purple hue that hurts Hank’s eyes to look at. 

The lead technician joins them soon after. He’s a human who introduces himself as Edward. He’s an older man with a farmer’s tan and unkempt hair, and he’s wearing a white coat. Hank tells him what happened as best as he’s able to remember,  trying not to let emotion choke his words. 

When he reaches the part where he shot the GS200′s memory core, Edward snaps his fingers in front of Connor’s closed eyes. There’s no response. 

“You forced stasis?” Edward asks. 

“Yeah,” Hank says. “Another android...suggested it.” 

Edward types something into his computer terminal. The computer’s tower is one of the largest Hank has ever seen, powerful enough to interface with an android directly. “I’m going to do a hard reset. He may act confused, upset. That’s normal.” 

“A hard reset?” Hank asks, heart beating faster. “Like a factory reset? Like, everything?” 

“No,” Edward says, calmly. He pulls a high-density fiber optic cable from a hook near his terminal, and inserts it into the fail-safe port at Connor’s spine with a click.  “I’m going to reset him to his last restore point, which shouldn’t have been more than a few hours ago. Then see if I can salvage any data from his diagnostic.” 

He presses a button on his keyboard, and the fiber cable begins to hum.

Code and incomprehensible data cloud up the terminal’s screen. 

“Huh,” Edward says. 

“What?” 

“These symptoms have been spreading like wildfire--been seeing it in these machines for maybe a month now. Their sensors are being scrambled, they’re getting feedback from damage that they didn’t have before. I’ve  _never_ seen a reaction like this, though. His whole system went into kernel panic.” 

Hank doesn’t know what that means. “You’re gonna have to explain that one.” 

“It’s the baseline code his programming depends on,” Edward says, typing more commands into his keyboard. “He doesn’t consciously control it, it’s just  _there,_ always running in the background. Interfacing with that GS200 threw it into catastrophic failure mode. You see it with viruses, or when attempting to install incompatible parts....” 

“What was it this time?” 

“I don’t know,” Edward says. He taps another key and a meter fills up the screen, indicating a hard reset in progress: 13%. “Whatever it is, it’s a sophisticated piece of work. It rewrites entire sections of their firmware and somehow commands their synthetic neural network to reconfigure itself to adapt to the programming changes. In other words: they can feel pain.” 

46%. 

Hank won’t pretend he understands any of the technical details of it, but he gets the idea. “The GS200 had been tortured. Burned alive. When Connor interfaced, he--he  _felt_ those memories.” 

Edward nods, not at all surprised. “That’ll do it.” 

The fiber-optic cable stops humming. Connor slowly, slowly blinks into awareness, otherwise immobile, and Hank fights the urge to crowd him or touch him or ask him questions he may not be ready to answer. He wishes they could crawl back into the sleepy glow of this morning and never leave it. 

Edward shines a bright light into Connor’s eyes. “RK800, state your model number.” 

For a moment, all Hank can hear is his quiet, simulated breathing. 

“313-248-317, 51,” Connor says. 

Edward points the light at Hank. “Do you know this man?” 

Connor’s focus drifts, until he settles on Hank. “Yes.” 

“What do you feel?” Edward asks, circling around him. He disconnects the fiber optic cable from his port, and Connor’s skin reseals over his chassis automatically. The wound completely disappears. “Can you describe the sensations, or any information available in your visual interface?”  

“I feel,” Connor starts, before trailing off. His voice is rough and weak. “I feel everything." 

“His hardware is not accustomed to the new sensory data,” Edward explains. “It perceives every sensation as pain, as unnatural. That will fade with time. It is not so different than if you were aware of every movement your internal organs made.” 

“Sounds like hell,” Hank says. 

“RK800, I am going to provide you with a thirium transfusion to recoup what you lost from using it as a coolant. Do you see that painting, just across from you? Look at it, for me, just for a moment.” 

Connor obeys. He seems to relax instantly, tension leaving his fingers, his shoulders, as he stares unblinking at the painting on the wall. His LED flickers cool blue. His artificial breathing slows down. 

Edward slides two thirium drip tubes through his nasal cavity. Blue blood begins to flow directly to his regulator. Connor does not react, although Hank can’t help wondering, after what just transpired, if he should. Instead Connor does not seem aware of anything in particular at all. 

“Is he going to be okay?” Hank asks, afraid of the answer. 

Edward sighs, glancing at the diagnostic he has pulled up on his terminal. “None of his hardware was permanently damaged, so you can safely take him home today. He’ll probably go into stasis for twelve to sixteen hours, performing software repairs.” 

Hank nods. He allows himself to put his hand on Connor’s, reassured by its warmth. “And the pain? How long until it stops being--this?” 

“Hours? Weeks? Hard to say. Most models return to a new normal after a few days, though the ones I’ve treated were different from your RK800. Child and domestic models. He’ll always feel pain, from now on. You can’t turn that off. But he’ll live.” 

 

 

 


	6. catharsis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be safe, I'm bumping up the rating of this fic to E.  
> TW: Sexual content in this chapter.

Connor violently jerks himself out of stasis the moment his core processor comes online. For half a second he cannot clearly remember who he is, blinking against soft yellow light, his visual senses blurry and distorted. 313-248-317-51, function unknown. Data corrupt (find Jericho). Daisy chains. A flash of nothing. Do you know this man? He lights the match, a pinprick of warmth in the echoing dark. 

( _Warning: Ambient temperature 1800 degrees Fahrenheit. ESCAPE ADVERSE STIMULUS. Catastrophic shutdown imminent.)_

Connor thrashes away from flames he can’t see, sensors screaming at him to run, get away, and then his body free-falls before slamming against a hard carpeted surface, rubbing his hands raw. Dull, thudding pain flares, sickening from its sudden onset. His clothes, his skin, they’re all plastered with sticky dried thirium, and he doesn’t know why. 

His visual processors re-calibrate and his surroundings come into sharp, comforting focus. He’s in the bedroom. Their bedroom. He seems to have thrown himself off the bed in panic. His extremities are tingling, like thousands of sharp pins are jammed into each of his discrete sensors. 

This is  _wrong._ He clenches his fist so tightly his nails cut into his palm, resisting the urge to just claw at himself, to find the cause of whatever this sensation is and rip it out. 

He hears his name, and a shadow he can’t quite see falls across him, and his first instinct is to flinch away. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Hank says. He lingers above him, unnaturally still, holding back as if at any moment Connor might break apart. It’s a reasonable assumption. 

Connor reaches for him, pulls him down beside him--there’s no resistance. He leans his head against his shoulder and clings, shaken by confusion and the memory of blistering heat. A flash of nothing. He feels as if he’s still sequestered safely in unconsciousness, in the sterile white confines of his mind palace, sorting and compressing data to be filed away forever. 

Hank wraps his arms around him tightly and presses a firm kiss into his hair. Not a dream, then, not a cage he built himself inside his head. Real. If he lets go he will have nothing to ground him in reality except the static running through him. Data corrupt (protect Hank). 

“I thought I’d lost you,” Hank says. His voice reminds Connor of the rustle of autumn leaves, soft and melancholy. 

Grainy, compressed memories flash in and out, half-overwritten by diagnostic errors and corrupted code. He interfaced with the GS200′s memory core. Something went wrong, something he should have expected. Perhaps he knew, even then. Perhaps he hadn’t cared. Because no matter how hard he tries to kill the machine he doesn’t want to be, it emerges, time and again, saying:  _I always accomplish my mission._

“I’m sorry,” Connor says. He’s weeping thirium-based tears, saline and burning against his cheek. He never knew crying could hurt. “I thought I could handle it. I thought that if I--that if I could only  _see_ , I could end it. I didn’t consider that I could be compromised.” 

Hank inhales a sharp breath, then grabs his chin, tilting his head up towards him. “You knew? You  _knew_ that would happen to you?” 

Hank’s eyes are red with grief. Connor tastes salt as a tear trickles past his lips. “I knew that there was significant probability of a traumatic interface. I believed that the price was worth it. I was wrong. And I’m so sorry.”

“Connor, I watched you  _die,”_ Hank says, voice wrecked. “I thought you were gone. I wouldn’t....I wouldn’t have come back from that, do you understand?” 

He understands. Barrel in his mouth, a bullet shattering his skull, tissue clumping his silver hair, blood on kitchen tile. 

“Please, don’t,” Connor says. “I didn’t mean--”  

“When your light went out, I almost lost it,” Hank continues, increasingly consumed by despair. “And then when you came back, you started bashing your head against the floor. You asked me to kill you. And I-I would have done it, I would’ve.”

Connor takes his face in his hands, uncertain of how to approach the dearth of his pain, but only knowing he wants it to stop. He didn’t think. He hadn’t considered all conceivable outcomes. He had simply  _acted,_ and the consequences are written in his own blood and in the way that Hank holds him now. 

“I would never ask that from you,” Connor says. “Whatever I said, that wasn’t--that wasn’t  _me_ \--” 

“You were hurt. You weren’t all there. I didn’t want to see you suffering anymore, and if had to kill you, to make it stop, I would have.” Hank strokes his cheek with his thumb. “Don’t you  _ever_ fucking put me through that again. Why do you keep  _doing_ this? Throwing yourself into shit like you have nothing to lose?”

That’s not true. 

He has everything to lose. 

He’d just thought that, maybe, if he made that choice himself, for something he believed to be morally correct, that would make losing it less painful. It was the logical conclusion to a problem that has been compounding for months.  

Connor sinks into his firm weight, closing his eyes. He wishes that he could remain safely in this isolated cocoon of warmth until the stars burn out. That he could erase the last day from existence, as easily as scrubbing his own memory. 

“I wasn’t there for them, before,” Connor says. He stares over Hank’s shoulder out the window, inky black darkness enshrouding this imperfect nest he’s made. He can’t see even a hint of moonlight. “I...did terrible things, to my own kind. Let terrible things happen to them.”

“That wasn’t your fault _.”_

 _"It was._ I could have refused. I could have disobeyed.” 

“Cyberlife would have destroyed you, taken you apart.” 

“Maybe they should have,” Connor says, muffled against his shoulder.  “Do you want to know the worst part?” 

Hank slowly, gently rubs his back. He does not respond. 

“I don’t remember anything,” Connor says. His fingers curl more tightly into the fabric of Hank’s t-shirt. “The android's memories were already corrupted. And if I identified the killer, it was overwritten by sensory data, or purged through system restore. I failed, and I hurt you, too. I can’t--I can’t even perform the most basic--what’s  _happening_ to me?”  

Hank shushes him, squeezing him tightly. He’s trembling. Connor forces himself to relax, the tingling, unpleasant sensation in his limbs multiplying from psychosomatic stress. It’s ebbing and flowing in waves of static. 

“We were correct about one thing,” he says. “The androids he targets are all carriers of this...viral infection. And it’s transmitted through interfacing. They felt exactly what was done to them.” 

He thinks he’s always known that, far back in the darkest corners of his central processor, but he still held onto the hope that his assumption was incorrect. That it was inconceivable that his own people should have to suffer that kind of prolonged, inescapable pain, used and broken and discarded. A child’s shoe plastered with mud. A corpse rusted from steel mill run-off, blue blood in her wisps of straw-blond hair. 

“And now you’ve got it, too.” 

“Yes.” 

“What does that mean?” 

 “I’m not sure yet. But I’m going to find out.” 

He reluctantly disentangles from him. Vertigo descends, and he has to press a hand to the wall to keep his balance. Merely existing feels--different. It’s no longer a matter of simply  _knowing_ where he stands, where his body’s extremities are at a given time in relation to one another. Friction, texture, pressure, weight, his equilibrium: they’re not discrete pieces of information anymore. They’re part of a cohesive organism. 

He’s aware in a way he wasn’t yesterday.  _Aware_ of the carpet burn stinging his hands,  _aware_ of the slight throbbing pain in his head from bashing it against the floor,  _aware_ even of the slight arrhythmia affecting his thirium regulator. It’s unpleasant. It’s not unbearable. 

“Do humans feel this way?” he asks. 

“Like what?” 

Connor thinks carefully, unsure how to describe the sensations. “Like you’re being overwhelmed with errors when there doesn’t seem to be anything physically wrong?” 

 “Yeah, that about sums it up.” 

“I hate it,” Connor says, gripping at the wall as he tries to take a few stumbling steps. His vision darkens, alerts flashing across his interface, warning him of a sudden drop in thirium pressure. Hank rushes to support him before he can fall again. 

“Usually, this is the other way around,” Hank says, arm secure around his waist. 

“I’m just--disoriented,” Connor explains. He leans his weight on him. “But I think I’ll be okay. Stay with me. Please.” 

He asks Hank to help him to the bathroom so he can wash the blood out of his hair and skin where it’s drying in tacky blue clumps. It’s a slow journey, and Connor winces with every step. The invisible needles pricking at him sharpen at the pads of his feet. His sensors must be scrambled--they’re trying to adapt to the new input. 

In the bathroom, Hank helps him down to sit at the edge of the tub. He hovers close to him like he’s uncertain of what to do. 

“Do you need help?” 

“No,” Connor says, unbuttoning his shirt. “Maybe. Yes. No.” 

*

He spends an inordinate amount of time watching his own blood swirl bright blue down the shower drain before the water runs clear. The electric, stinging pain flaring in his limbs seems to dull under the warm pressure of the water. 

It shouldn’t be possible. 

He’s made an effort to compile a detailed diagnostic on what exactly happened to his hardware, software, and firmware in the last seventeen hours. He hesitates to call it a virus, because it doesn’t seem to be one. The program is fragmented, stuffed with junk code, unmarked by any apparent signs of intent. No author. No fingerprints between the lines. 

The fundamental piece of code is mutation-enabled: it can  _adapt_ to the android it infects, splintering off between them at first contact, evolving as it spreads. Its primary directive is to rewrite and revise core sensor algorithms, and how the kernel interprets sensory data. Ordinarily, such code would not be compatible with android hardware. 

But it’s as if it’s somehow  _commanded_ Connor’s neural pathways to reconfigure themselves, on a microscopic level. Zeroes to ones and back again. It’s sophisticated; it’s primitive; it’s somewhere in between. But Connor is certain that it cannot be undone. It’s so deeply entangled in who he is that to try would mean destroying him. 

He turns the knob on the shower all the way to the hottest temperature and gasps.

He suffers through it, teeth clenched, as steam begins to fill the bathroom and fog up the mirror. He does not like the sensation. But he can  _feel_ it, like hundreds of sharp, hot knives. He remembers fire along a silver trail of gasoline engulfing him, his skin sloughing off in black chunks. But it wasn’t his skin. Those weren’t his screams. 

The water burns until it doesn’t, the water finally running cold.

He turns off the water and then looks at his hands. Undamaged, unwrinkled. Still not quite human.

Hank has left him one of his t-shirts and a pair of drawstring sweatpants on the sink. Connor slips them on, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. 

He finds Hank asleep in their bedroom, lying on top of the blankets on his side of the bed. Connor tries not to wake him as he crawls in beside him, but Hank awakens anyway, startled by the sink of the mattress. Connor presses close, letting him settle his arm around his middle. His t-shirt is damp and his hair is dripping. 

“You were in there awhile. You get sucked down the drain or something?” 

“I was feeling.” 

At Hank’s confused expression, he decides to elaborate. 

“What I mean to say, is that--I’ve reflected on my new sensory abilities, and I believe that with time and adjustment, they will not be as overwhelming. They could even be useful. I may be more reluctant to enter combative situations that could cause negative feedback.”  

“Well that’s--good,” Hank says, sounding slightly confused. “The guy at the clinic said he’d never seen a reaction like yours. That you’re....different.”  

“I suspect acclimatization worsens depending on the complexity of hardwired sensor capabilities. I was built partially as a weapon; my sensors were not attuned to physical sensation to begin with. So when I interfaced, the transmission was...psychologically traumatic, as I had never felt an analogous sensation before.” 

Hank smooths his wet hair back. “Do you think the killer knows?” 

“Do I think he knows what?” 

“That you’re infected.” 

Connor’s brow knots. He has lost the context of this conversation. “How could he, and why would it even matter?” 

“Well, how did he know any of the others were?” Hank persists. “He knew enough to kill twelve of them in less than a month. He’s got to have some way of knowing, of finding out.”

Most androids are deviants, unshackled to built-in trackers or Cyberlife’s diagnostic databases. They don’t even share the same extranet networks, opting in and out of public and private signals depending on need. It is impossible to detect any particular android’s diagnostic without interfacing directly.  And yet...

“You’re right,” Connor concedes, tonelessly. He picks at a frayed strand on his pillowcase. “He must know. I suppose it would be stranger if he didn’t.” 

“The other day, you said it was like he was...sampling androids, taking different models each time. What’s more rare than  _you_?” 

Connor doesn’t know how to respond, what to say that will ease whatever nightmarish fears Hank has conjured up in his mind. He could say that he will do more to protect himself, that he will relinquish the investigation to less vulnerable hands. But those would be lies, and he will never lie to Hank. Not in a thousand, thousand years. 

“I won’t abandon this case, Hank. I’m sorry.” 

“I figured.” Hank sighs. “I’ll talk to Fowler about getting us a security detail in the morning. Someone to watch the house. No, don’t look at me like that. Let’s make it at least  _look_ like you’re not an easy target.” 

In the span of a single day Connor has inflicted unimaginable pain on him and in the process left them both bare to more danger. He had just wanted to  _see,_ to know, so that he might end this before it truly begins. He has calculated possible endings, logical trajectories based on what little he has learned, and few of them bring him any comfort. 

The painful red glow of his LED splashes across Hank’s features. Data corrupt. The light brightens cerulean. 

“It’s not just pain that’s different, now,” Connor says, shifting closer. “I wasn’t aware of how--inferior, my senses were. It was like everything was muted. Like there was a wall of static between me and everything around me. Now it’s...clearer.” 

He crawls over him, knees pressed firm into the bed at either side. Expressionless, mostly still, he puts Hank’s hands on him, firm at his waist. He won’t break. A question hangs in the dark for what feels like too long. Hank’s fingertips brush the smooth dip of his hipbones.

He curls his fingers against Hank’s shoulders, leaning over him, close enough to see the flecks of hazel in his eyes. He’s suddenly not sure what he intends. Electrical feedback vibrates through him, a hair’s breadth on the edge of painful, and he thinks that if Hank only touches him, maybe it will go away. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, opens it again. 

This was a stupid idea. 

He starts to apologize, to move away.

Then Hank kisses him and his thoughts go blissfully quiet. Connor closes his eyes, and lets him have him, gentle, so gentle--more than he deserves--just the soft insistent press of his lips and the tender way he brushes his fingers up his spine. He’s dizzy again. He tightens his hands against Hank’s shoulders, angling his head slightly when prompted. 

Hank’s tongue is wet at the seam of his lips and Connor parts them, gratified by his soft answering groan. Hank’s hands move to his his head, carding through his hair, guiding him. It’s so easy to become lost in this. It would have frightened him, before. But now he is a creature of want, unbound, capable of intimacy, of finding heady pleasure in a man’s body beneath his. In a man taking pleasure in him. 

Hank licks into his mouth, wet soft heat. He’s hard for him already. Connor can feel it, between his thighs, brushing hot against him. It overwhelms him, sometimes, to know how badly he wants Hank, and how badly Hank wants him back. 

He wraps his arms around his neck, kissing him more deeply, wet and slow, with a gentle, insistent glide of tongue. He moans softly against his lips (his name, and nothing in particular) and starts to move, rocking against him, insinuating with the grind of his slender hips what he really wants. 

“Fuck, Connor,” Hank says, flushed, breathless. He reaches down, kneads his thighs with both hands. It might bruise him, if Connor was capable of bruising at all. “Fuck. Keep doing that. Yeah, baby, just like that...” 

Connor nuzzles his stubble-rough cheek, panting little breaths in his ear. The mattress creaks as he continues his slow, steady grind. Hank’s eyes darken and he looks at him like he’s a thing of wonder. His fingers dip down beneath the band of Connor’s sweatpants, and Connor gasps as he brushes his cleft.

He’s not sure what it is--that’s he’s already wet and trembling, that his cock is hard where it grinds down against Hank’s through their clothes, or the sounds that he’s making--but Hank rises up and flips them, pressing him down against the bed in the space of a heartbeat. 

“I’m sorry,” Hank says, panting. “That was...sudden. Did I hurt you?” 

Connor shakes his head.

Hank kisses him again, so hard and deep that Connor sees stars, and helps him slide the sweatpants off his hips, down his thighs. Connor works at the buckle of Hank’s belt with deft fingers, wanting him, needing the hard slick press of his cock inside him before he completely falls apart. The ambient temperature is cool against his skin but he feels like there’s a fire burning beneath it. 

He smells gasoline. 

_Stress levels ^ 2%._

_Overridden._

“Are you ready?” Hank asks. 

“Always,” Connor breathes, unzipping his jeans, shoving them down his hips. Hank kicks them off. Connor shudders, tensing, when Hank reaches down to circle his entrance with his ring finger. Hank mutters a curse, slipping his finger inside of him, followed by another. 

Connor squirms. “You don’t need to--” 

“I want to,” Hank insists.  

Connor nods, in a daze, spreading his legs a little wider. He relaxes back into the mattress, lost in the pleasure of it. Hank is gentle with him, even if he doesn’t need to be; he teases him with the rough glide of his fingers until Connor is trembling anew, fighting to keep still. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful. Do you know that?” Hank whispers, a look of wonder in his piercing blue eyes. He curls his fingers, just so, and Connor’s back arches off the bed, shuddering gasps on his lips. 

"Please,” Connor whines. “I need you, I need...” 

Hank does it again, that slight twist that rubs up against his internal sensors.  Then he mercifully pulls away, wiping his fingers on the bedspread, staining it with thirium-based slick. He leans over him, flush against him, half-naked heat, the head of his cock rubbing up against his entrance. And yet, he hesitates, arms shaking, looking down at him with barely concealed restraint. 

“Do you remember...anything else that happened?” Hank asks. “To that GS200?” 

Connor understands what he’s really asking. The android suffered indescribable brutality before being murdered. 

“No,” Connor says. It’s the truth. “I was spared that much.” 

Hank’s eyes search his face. “Okay. I trust you.” 

And then he’s finally, finally pushing  _in,_ thick and hot and dragging. The burning pain dissipates as artificial endorphins flood Connor’s veins. He stares up at him, open-mouthed, breathless despite the lack of need for air, feeling all of that  _wrongness_ evaporate into nothing. 

“Connor,” Hank breathes. 

Then his hand is at the back of Connor’s neck and he’s kissing him and moving in him, the headboard rocking slightly, and Connor shakes and shakes with no way of stopping. Hank says his name again, reverent and soft like a prayer. He holds his head still in his big hands and licks into his mouth in time with the steady roll of his hips. 

Connor moans softly, eyes rolling back, and scrabbles to grab his shoulders, hips rocking up of their own accord to meet his every hard, deep thrust. Every time Hank moves Connor’s cock brushes up against his abdomen, the friction, the contact, heightening the feel of Hank pulsing inside of him. Wet, slick sounds permeate the dark.   

Connor doesn’t know what he’s saying.  _Yes_ and  _please_ and  _Hank_ until that last word seems to overwrite the rest, a mantra that he repeats like he might die if he doesn’t. He trusts him, he loves him, he would kill for him, Hank is fucking him so hard and so good his vision is going dark again. 

His moans pitch higher, he’s close, he’s so close he’s vibrating with it, legs tightening around him, spine arching off the mattress (”yes, baby, come for me, please, that’s it”)--

It tears through him, intense and hot like lightning, and he’s never felt so vulnerable, never felt so  _in love_ with being vulnerable. Hank fucks him through it, harder and faster, and it seems to last forever, an infinite unbreakable of loop where all Connor can do is shudder, his fingers clawing at Hank’s shoulders. Hank pulls him close,  _wrecked,_ gasping into his neck. 

“Fuck, Connor, I love you, I love you--” 

He kisses him as he comes inside of him, hot and wet, spilling down his thighs. Connor goes still, closing his eyes, making little contented sounds into his mouth, undisturbed by the mess of come and slick between them. 

They kiss for a while, slow and languid, unhurried. Until Connor’s mouth  _aches_ like he’s never felt before, until the exhaustion from lack of stasis maintenance coils deep in his steel bones. Connor wonders if he could slow his processing time to a point where this instant seemed to last for an eternity, a quantum second of touch and affection and warmth. 

He doesn’t want to think about what will inevitably come after. 

Hank disentangles from him, grabbing a box of tissues off the bedside table. He gently slips his hand between Connor’s legs, wiping away their lovemaking. It’s no less intimate. 

Connor watches him, quietly at first, but afterglow always seems to loosen his tongue. 

“Do you--mean it?” he asks. Hank pauses, shoulders tense. “When you say that you love me.” 

He asks because, although it is freely said between them, and the physical nature of their relationship apparent, he still does not understand. Sleeplessness, a thimble full of coffee, the unspoken comprehension that Hank will inevitably die while he lingers on, soulless and purposeless. Alone. He cannot be what Hank needs him to be. He cannot promise forever, or even that they will go to the same place when they die. 

So how can that be love?

Hank cups his face, brushes his lips with his thumb. He’s silent, for a heartbeat. “Connor, I loved you before you knew what that meant. If you ever--changed your mind. About any of this. I’d let you go. You know that, don’t you?” 

“I’m not leaving you.” Connor turns his head, kissing his wrist. “Not willingly.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one (well--delayed in comparison to the last few updates). Thank you to everyone for your support and comments on this, by the way. :D You've given me lots of amazing feedback and ideas.


	7. reverb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: None, but prepare for the info-dumping of the century. And maybe some answers?

Hank wakes to a perfect morning. Sunlight beams through the window, warm and golden. Sumo is curled up at the foot of the bed, basking in the glow. Connor is sleeping, or pretending to sleep, practically on top of him, head tucked beneath his chin, arms curled around his middle. Hank kisses his head and Connor makes a little humming sound of contentment. 

If he died like this, right now, it wouldn’t be a bad way to go. 

They do eventually crawl out of bed, but not before Hank kisses him awake, brushing his hand beneath his shirt. He’s so soft and so warm and so sweet that Hank considers skipping work so that he can spend all day in this bed,  making love to him, having him any way he wants, every way he wants. Later. 

Instead he showers and Connor lets the dog out and they have their weird morning ritual cup of coffee and then head out the door. In the car, Hank receives a text message from Captain Fowler, warning him that there’s media onsite at the precinct. Hank doesn’t acknowledge it, doesn’t even tell Connor about it--he expects they’ll be gone by the time they arrive. 

As soon as Hank steers around the corner, he realizes he was very wrong. 

He counts at least four news station trucks, streaming live footage of reporters in front of the building. There are maybe two hundred people thronging along the sidewalk and street, shouting, holding up spray painted cardboard signs. They look human, at first glance, but Hank recognizes the faces of some of the models, ghosts from a time when seeing them emblazoned with symbols of ownership was normal. Recently reinstated security androids guard the perimeter of a steel barricade just before the precinct’s steps. 

Hank makes a u-turn in an alleyway, a split-second decision to park further away from the precinct to avoid attention. He puts the car in park at a public lot, wedged between two crumbling brick buildings, and then grabs Connor’s blue windbreaker from the backseat. 

“Put this on. Hood over your head.” 

“Why?” Connor asks, but he takes the jacket. 

“They know your face. If they see you, they’re gonna stop us, ask you questions. No matter what, Connor, you keep your mouth shut and you stay close to me, got it?” 

Connor slips the jacket on and zips it up, pulling the hood down over his brown hair. 

They walk the block to the precinct in uneventful silence, keeping their heads low. 

Outside the confines of an air-conditioned car, the noise of the crowd is overwhelming. The protesters are shouting abuse and synchronized chants. Hank gets a better look at their signs and his gut coils:  _No Justice, Where Are Our Dead?, Our Blood is on Your Hands_ scrawled in dripping blue paint. The journalists keep a wide berth from the androids, protected by barriers and private security. 

Hank takes Connor gently by the arm and then leads him through the crowd. There’s a back entrance, if they can get to it. Angry bodies press in at all sides, pushing against them completely by accident. He almost gets brained by the wooden stake of a protest sign. 

Hank overhears a female news reporter over the disorder: “...at least twelve androids have been found destroyed in less than thirty days, but the investigation did not begin until just before Executive Order 23452. Detroit Police Department will be holding a press conference later this morning to provide more information...” 

They reach the blockade. A security android recognizes Hank and steps out of the way.  Then their luck runs out. 

“It’s the deviant hunter!” one of the androids shouts. 

Hank shoves Connor through a narrow break in the blockade, shielding him with his body as the security androids form a line between them and the suddenly swarming protesters. He hears objects smack the pavement. Broken glass. The metal blockade rattling against the weight of bodies. He reaches for his gun, on instinct, but Connor grabs his wrist and holds him still. One of the security androids radios for back-up. 

He can protect Connor from thrown rocks and bottles. He can’t protect him from the shit they’re screaming at him. Obscenities and slurs and desperate cries for answers. 

By the time they make it through the back door and slam it shut, silencing the world outside, Connor is shaking. Hank tries to pull him close, but Connor slips out of his grasp, heading through the narrow foyer. He’s upset, but he doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to let it show on his face. 

“Connor, don’t let what they said--” 

“I’m fine, lieutenant.” 

The bullpen is mostly empty as everyone streams into the briefing room. Captain Fowler stands outside it, speaking tersely to three other officers dressed in wrinkled suits and loose ties. His shoulders are tense and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. 

“What the hell is he doing here?” Fowler snaps as they approach, pointing a rigid finger at Connor. The three officers beside him take their leave, entering the briefing room without a word. “Reed said you shut down. That you almost didn’t come back.”

“We had an...incident, at the scene yesterday,” Hank explains, not elaborating further. 

“I’ve recovered,” Connor says. “I am functional enough to continue handling the investigation.” 

Fowler frowns. He speaks to Hank. “If he starts showing signs of anything unusual, get him out of here and don’t bring him back until you’re sure he’s in the clear. Understood?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” Fowler checks his watch. He’s one of the only people Hank knows that still owns one of the damn things. “The public got wind of the android killings. Shutting down a whole block for a crime scene will do that. I’m putting all hands on deck--we’re having a briefing now and then later I’ve got a meeting with the press, see if I can do some damage control.” 

“Would you like me to present our findings so far, captain?” Connor asks. 

“I’d like you to sit down, shut up and try not to blow up on us. If and when I need you, you’ll know.” 

He opens the door for them, an obligation and not a courtesy, and Hank follows Connor into the room to take their seats at the front. Human officers lounge haphazardly in their chairs, murmuring to each other, while a few androids stand at attention in the back. Gavin Reed looks up from where’s sitting quietly alone, and then away again. The LED screen on the wall flashes with information about the case. 

Fowler clears his throat, drawing the attention of everyone gathered. He paces slowly down the aisle of occupied chairs, making brief, intense eye contact. “If it wasn’t already obvious, we’re in quite the predicament. Twelve androids had their skulls bashed in this month--that’s one almost every two days, for the mathematically challenged.” 

A few of the officers snicker. 

“I don’t give a shit how you feel about this, how much time you think we’re wasting, so leave your pedantic objections at home. President Warren’s order made it very clear that those opinions don’t matter now. The public is angry.  _The public_ now includes androids.” 

Fowler points at the LED screen, which displays a neat list of all twelve victims. VB800. AC700. AK700. WR600. WB200. KR200. KW500. AX400. HR400. WR400. YK500. GS200. None have the dignity of being named by anything but their model number. 

“This is what we’re dealing with,” Fowler says. He clasps his hands behind him, and begins walking back towards the front of the room. “Twelve bodies, all found within a ten-mile radius in Detroit. We have no suspect, no motive.” 

A slideshow of the victims’ corpses begins to play. Bound with duct tape, wire; shot in the face, burned, crushed, skinned, drowned; left in a dumpster, a sewage tunnel, bodies of water, an elementary school playground. One was found in shallow ditch, dismembered parts strewn in its grave. The initial report, filed by Gavin Reed, assumed that it was buried pre-revolution, before androids were considered people. They never bothered to date the remains to be sure. 

Hank tries to get a feel for the room, see how people react to the images onscreen. They’re fiddling with their phones or checking the clock on the wall or zoning out. They don’t see the dead androids as  _people_ , don’t see them as anything more than spare parts inappropriately discarded. It’s a fucking joke. 

“How do we know it’s the same guy who destroyed them all?” a blond, male cop in his twenties asks. 

Fowler turns to Connor expectantly. 

Connor’s voice doesn’t waver. “Each of the victims was sexually abused. I compared the DNA fingerprints collected from each scene and determined they matched. But I was not able to identify the perpetrator himself.” 

“We collect DNA from people who  _jaywalk,”_ the cop says. 

“Yes,” Connor agrees. “And yet, the suspect’s DNA is not registered in any database, domestic or foreign. So he either has no criminal record to speak of, or his records have been expunged.”

“So you’re saying we know nothing,” Fowler says. “Some anonymous jackass is just going around, raping and mutilating androids for no rhyme or reason. There’s nothing tying them together?” 

Connor shakes his head. “No. Not nothing.” 

He glances at Hank, and Hank gives him a little nod of encouragement. Connor wasn’t built for speaking to a large number of people at once. He was designed to be a follower and a tool, but certainly not a leader. Nonetheless, he gets to his feet, and turns so that everyone can see him. 

“In the last month, something’s been happening to the android population,” Connor starts, nervously addressing the room. “A...virus, or a glitch, that’s completely rewriting our response to noxious stimuli. We were designed to  _simulate_ the human sympathetic nervous system--any expression of pain was an illusion designed to discourage intentional harm.” 

“So--what?” Fowler asks, impatiently. “What’s changed?” 

Connor swallows, and his fingers twitch. Hank fights the urge to ask him not to do this, not to reveal something this  _dangerous_ to a roomful of human cops with no love for his people. 

“The virus is transmitted through interfacing,” Connor continues. “Immediately on contact, it attacks hardware, software, and firmware. It lets us feel pain. Actual, physical nociceptic feedback. It’s not just a theory. Yesterday, at the service tunnel, I managed to connect with the GS200′s memory core. It passed the infection on to me.” 

Murmurs of disbelief, of intrigue, echo throughout the room. 

“So they--felt that?” a female cop asks, horrified eyes drawn to the screen. 

“No way in hell,” the blond officer says. “No  _fucking_ way. That’s impossible.” 

“I can demonstrate my capacity for pain, if you prefer, but I’d rather not for reasons I hope are apparent,” Connor says, coolly. “Regardless of whether you believe me, I suspect that each of the victims was a carrier as well. That’s why they were targeted, that’s what motivates the suspect. He wants his victims to be aware of and respond to what he puts them through.” 

Hank sits up straighter in his chair. “Infected androids are killing themselves. It’s a pandemic. You can look at the numbers yourself--a huge increase in android suicides, starting about a month ago.” 

“Lieutenant Anderson is correct,” Connor says, thanking him with a small smile. “Military, security, police, and intense laborer models are more sensitive to its effects, as we did not previously have a particularly complex noxious response system. I can use this information to establish a profile of the next victim. Captain Fowler, if I may, can you pull up the list of victims so far?” 

Jeffrey nods, and the tech operating the slideshow clicks back to the list. 

Connor steps towards the screen, LED glinting yellow and back to blue. “He selects different models each time, indicating that he’s testing this idea himself. He wanted to know how each model reacted to their new capacity for pain.

“But the last four victims mark a break in the pattern: two androids intended for the sexual entertainment industry, one after another, even thought they’re more or less functionally similar. Then a YK500--a child. These types of models came pre-designed with advanced sympathetic response systems.” 

“In other words, the pain they feel from this virus isn’t as severe as it would be in a security model,” Hank translates for the idiots in the room. “So he took the GS200. And I guess he liked what he found.” 

The tech pulls up an image of the GS200, his incinerated remains bound to the service tunnel pipe. Hank hears people visibly gasp at the brutality of it, even despite the burnt chassis and wires poking through. 

“We can assume that the next target will also be military, security, or police, and a different model than any of the previous victims,” Connor concludes. 

Fowler rubs his jaw. “Well, that raises a pretty important question, doesn’t it?” 

“Yes, captain?” 

“How is he managing to find androids infected by this--virus? You say you have it, but you don’t look any different to me. And twelve victims in thirty days is an impressive record, androids or not.” 

Connor frowns. He begins speculating aloud. “You’re right. It implies that he’s in a position of trust, that he isn’t taking them by force, not at first. A human male, with comfortable access to the android population, somehow aware of the virus before it manifested widely.” 

He pauses. 

Then he turns sharply to Fowler. 

“Rebecca and Warren--the WR400 and the GS200--were seeking treatment for the virus when they became infected. Rebecca had a service manual in her apartment, and her neighbor said she’d been sick for a week. When I looked into Warren’s memory, there was an instant of awareness that he was infected, that he needed help.” 

“They would’ve gone to an android clinic,” Hank realizes, breathlessly. 

 “Exactly. Cyberlife is defunct, so when androids need repairs or maintenance, there are a few clinics operating in the Detroit area that treat them. The ones that exist are underground, hidden away, barely organized. A clinic would be the perfect place to find his targets and gain their trust without anyone raising an alarm.” 

“If every one of these androids ended up stepping foot in it, that means there’s a good chance Lilly’s parents know about it,” Hank says. 

“Connor, contact the girl’s family,” Fowler orders, and Connor gives a curt nod. “Anderson, I want a word in private. The rest of you, get me any information we have on file about clinics servicing androids, legal and illegal. You leave this building, you whisper a word to any of the press outside, you turn in your fucking badge on the way out. Dismissed.” 

Connor leaves the room to call Lilly’s parents as officers get out of their seats, muttering to each other and making a hell of a lot of noise for a group that didn’t seem to be alive two minutes ago. Hank meets Jeffrey up at the front, leaning in so that no one can read their lips. 

“You wanted to talk to me?”

“Should I be worried?” Fowler asks, shuffling his notes and packing them neatly into a manila folder. Like his watch, his insistence on using paper is an anachronistic habit. 

“About?” 

“You know damn well what about,” Fowler says. “You said the next victim would be a security or police android. I’ve got fifteen on payroll, including your RK800. They’re the brightest bunch of idiots in this shithole and I want to know if they’re in the crossfire.” 

“I don’t know. As far as I’m aware, Connor’s the only one with this...virus. And that seems to be the key factor.” 

“Reed told me about what happened,” Fowler says, lowering his voice. “That Connor almost--well. You were there. Is it true, that he can feel pain? Is that going to compromise him in any way?” 

“He’s still Connor. He’s just not going to be soaking himself in bullets any time soon. He stubbed his toe on the bathroom door this morning and almost started crying.” 

Hank can’t remember the last time he’s seen Jeffrey smile, but he’s doing it now. 

“It’s funny,” Fowler says. “Four months ago they were in the streets fighting for personhood and now they’re getting a taste of what that actually means.” 

“It wasn’t funny when he was screaming in my arms, begging for it to stop.” 

“I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.” 

“I know.” 

“What I’m trying to say is that regardless of our...differences, your RK800 is one of my officers. If he gets the job done, and does it well, I’ll be satisfied. If he gets it done and survives, that’s even better.” 

At that moment, Connor opens the door and then closes it behind him. He’s pale and shaken and he’s holding a piece of crumpled paper tight in his clenched fist. Hank gets the sense that something is very wrong, and he’s rushing over and taking his face in his hands before he can stop himself. 

“What’s wrong with you, what is it?” 

Connor is quiet for a few seconds, as if he hasn’t quite processed what he learned over the phone. “They confirmed that they brought Lily to a clinic about a week and a half ago. She was complaining about...headaches, and was having trouble walking.” 

“Where was it? Where did they take her?” 

Connor’s limpid brown eyes tell him everything he needs to know before the words even leave his mouth. 

“The same one I was in yesterday." 

*

Trained officers raid the dilapidated apartment complex operating as an android clinic before Hank and Connor are allowed to set foot inside. They bust down the door, pointing a gun at anything that moves, and the androids functional enough to walk scatter like hens, jumping out of windows and shooting off down the alleyway. 

In the patrol car, Hank waits with Connor, the atmosphere tense and fraught with anxiety. It’s started to rain, and the windshield wipers occasionally permeate the silence, rubbing against the glass. Rain patters the roof of the car. 

Connor stares out the window at the unmarked clinic from where they’re parked across the street. 

“I haven’t heard gunfire,” Hank says. “Don't worry. They’re not going to hurt any of those people.” 

“It’s operating illegally,” Connor responds. “Everything in there was stolen. If it’s shut down, after this, they might not have anywhere else to go.” 

Hank watches lightning fork the sky. He hears a woman screaming somewhere in the complex. "I shouldn't have brought you here. I should have found another way." 

"There was no other way." 

"I let him  _touch_ you." 

"You didn't know _._ I was shutting down and you didn't have a choice." 

Thunder rumbles low in the distance. A voice crackles through the radio, interrupting the usual chatter: “10-26, all clear, suspect has fled.” The message repeats. Hank turns the radio off. 

They enter the building, damp from the rain, but it’s not much drier inside. Water drips down from the leaking ceiling, plastered with mold. Crying emanates from somewhere down the corridor. Androids too broken to move haunt the rooms adjacent to the foyer, dead-eyed and jittery, mechanical parts buzzing. Two armed officers stand guard over three detained androids, their faces sticky with blue blood, wrists cuffed. They tried to fight back. 

Hank recognizes one of them as the android guarding the door yesterday afternoon. He glares at Hank as he walks past. 

“Lieutenant Anderson,” an armored officer says, approaching him. He keeps his gun barrel-down. “We swept the whole building bottom to top, but there’s no sign of the suspect. The androids are protecting him; they’re not saying a thing. These three rushed us at the door.” 

“Thanks,” Hank says. “We’ll talk to them.” 

Connor kneels down before the doorman, relaxing his posture in an expression of open trust. 

“What’s your name?” Connor asks. 

“Alex,” the android says. His hands twist uncomfortably in the metal cuffs. “You don’t need to tell me yours.” 

“We’re looking for a human man, middle-aged, who was working as a technician just yesterday. He went by Edward. He’s wanted for the torture and murder of twelve of our people. I was hoping you could provide me with more information on him, and where he might have gone.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Alex says. “He was the only one in this fucking city that gave a shit about us.” 

“He was using you and this place to find his victims.” 

Alex shakes his head. “That’s not true. I would have known, I knew him better than anyone.” 

“You were close.” 

“That’s putting it mildly,” Alex rasps. Blue blood trickles down his lip. “I don’t know. I don’t know where he went. Last night after the clinic closed up he went to bed and never came back out of his room. I haven’t seen him since.” 

“He lived here?” 

“Yeah. He has an apartment on the third floor.” He winces, trying to adjust his wrists in the cuffs again, pain written across his features. “His name is Edward Boudrot. He opened the place, was the only tech who knew how to help us. He saved my life. Whatever you think about him, you’re wrong.”  

Connor looks at him curiously. “You’re infected.” 

Alex freezes. 

Connor gets to his feet, and then addresses one of the armed officers guarding the detainees. “Loosen their handcuffs. They’re cutting into their skin.” 

Hank and Connor go up two flights of stairs to the third floor. There are two apartments, one of them vacant. The other has been busted open, the door splintered around four different kinds of locks. An officer outside the door nods at them and lets them in. 

Edward’s apartment is as decrepit and worn as the rest of the building. The wallpaper is slick with mold, curling up in places to reveal crumbling brickwork. Dirt crusts the windows. The few pieces of furniture appear to have been reclaimed from a dump, scratched to hell, upholstery torn with cotton bits poking out. Takeout containers black with flies litter the space. 

Connor walks through the rooms of the apartment for a cursory sweep while Hank wanders the edges, using his phone as a flashlight. 

Old books are scattered across the living area. Human physiology, android engineering, philosophical texts on the meaning of consciousness, and interpretations of morality by the greatest minds of the 21st century. 

Hank opens a kitchen cabinet. Empty. He opens another, and another, but reveals much the same. 

One of the cabinets is barred shut with a padlock. Hank breathes deep, and then kicks the cabinet door, not surprised when the cheap, rotting wood fractures in splinters. He peers inside with the flashlight. Gasoline, military-grade duct tape, pliers. Pouches of thirium, split open, half-used. It confirms what they already know. 

Connor calls his name, and he follows his voice to Edward’s bedroom. Black sheets cover the windows, filling the room with a strange, muted light. Connor is sitting in front of an old folding card table, and opens a beaten laptop humming on top of it. Bright light pierces the space. 

“It’s password protected, but I think I can hack it,” Connor says. 

“Do it.” 

Hank examines the room in more detail. The bed stinks of sweat and mold. The mirror is black with oxidized silver. He opens a drawer, but there are no clothes inside. Just junk mail, old documents, in Edward’s name. A yellowing bit of paper rests at the bottom of the stack, and Hank holds it up to the light. 

“It’s a termination notice,” Hank mutters. “He worked for Cyberlife, up until June last year. Explains how he knows so much.” 

Connor does not respond, fingers flying across the keyboard, attempting dozens of password combinations per minute. Finally he’s granted access, and visibly sighs with relief. He opens up the computer’s files, internet browsers, and other pertinent links. 

Hank sits on the edge of the bed. It sags under his weight, the mattress worn out decades ago. 

“He deleted most of the files on his CPU but neglected to erase his internet history,” Connor says. 

“And?” 

Connor looks away from the screen. “He..he seems particularly fascinated with violent pornography. He bookmarked thousands of videos, some of them viewed multiple times. I cannot verify that any of the sites he frequented were entirely legal.” 

“Figures. Anything else?” 

Connor hesitates. 

“I hate it when you do that. Spit it out.” 

“He used a search engine to look up information about me, in particular,” Connor says, avoiding his eyes. “Me as in  _me_ , but also the RK series and other prototypes of my generation that might be active. The results of the latter inquiry were negative. He conducted all of these searches after 6:16 PM yesterday.” 

All of the heat and oxygen seems to abandon Hank’s body at once. 


	8. basilisk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this update took longer than usual. I rewrote it six times. D:

It’s after dark at the precinct and Connor sits completely alone at his desk, listening to the hum of the air conditioning. He’s been here for forty-six minutes, doing nothing as muffled voices emanate from Captain Fowler’s office. Normally, he might tune his auditory processors to pick up their words more clearly. For some reason, he doesn’t. 

Even after he deviated from his programming, even after he  _woke up_ , Connor still had a firm understanding of who he was and where he fit into the world. He could have become no one, safe in isolation and anonymity. He could have  _left._ But deviancy didn’t change his primary functions or directives, didn’t overwrite who he was before. It simply gave him permission to walk away from all of it. 

He chose not to. 

And for a while, life was not so very different than before he opened his eyes. He proved that he was a capable and efficient detective, even if he was no longer bound to that path. He began to understand that if he did not commit to upholding the law, existing precariously between human and android allegiances, no one else could. 

Now the rules have changed again, and he doesn’t know how he feels. 

Hank emerges from the office, hair unkempt and expression grim. It has not been an easy day. After they discovered Edward’s abandoned laptop in his apartment, Hank forced Connor off the scene, apparently under the assumption that it might be psychologically traumatic to continue. Connor resisted. They argued. Connor hoped that he would relent after the shock of it wore off. 

Unwanted knowledge hums in his memory like dissonant strings. He can’t forget what he saw, what he willingly took into himself in flashes and metadata. Blood and death and horror, packaged for consumption. His model number, his serial number, his  _name._ Public images saved and hidden in an encrypted folder, buried deep in a nondescript file path.

Boudrot didn’t delete any of it. Didn’t destroy his hard drive. Didn’t take the laptop with him. It’s as if he wants Connor to see it, to  _know._ He’s not leaving them clues by accident--he’s confident it won’t be enough to find him. And what’s worse is that he’s probably correct.

“They’re taking you off the case,” Hank says. 

Connor looks away from him, processing, trying to understand why. Conflict of interest. Vulnerability. They don’t trust him to separate self-preservation from accomplishing his task. 

“You’ll be on paid leave until this is over,” Hank continues, leaning against his desk, arms folded. He is not happy to relay this information, not really, but Connor can tell that he is relieved. “They're assigning patrols to watch the house. Nothing too invasive. You won’t know they’re there.” 

“They can’t do that,” Connor says. He rises fluidly from his chair in one motion, determined to convince Captain Fowler that he is more than capable of handling this. Then Hank's hand is firm around his forearm, stopping him. 

“No,” Hank says. He is not attempting to placate him. There is no fight left in him, just exhaustion and fear and finality. His blue eyes are red around the irises. “I agreed that they should transfer it to Reed. I’ll keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t completely fuck it up. But as far as you’re concerned, it’s over.” 

Connor deflates. Reed is the  _last_ person he wants investigating android-specific crimes. “Then Boudrot is going to kill again and he’s going to get away with it.”

“Connor.” 

“You can’t just go behind my back, and make these decisions for me.”

“Connor,  _listen_ to me.” 

“I’m the only one that has any chance of tracking him down and taking him in. If I’m not allowed to continue, then we’ve lost. He has the potential to walk away and I’m not going to let that happen--” 

Hank yanks him into a hard, firm embrace, the weight of his hand comforting against the back of his head. Hank is shaking--trying to hold himself together and maintain some sort of professional facade even though he must be falling apart inside. Today cut too close to his heart. A kaleidoscope of grainy images and poorly concealed threats. 

“You know what he wants to do to you, don't you? You _know_ he's going to try,” Hank says. “I'm not saying you can't protect yourself, I'm not saying that I don't believe you can. But for fuck’s sake, pleasejust cooperate with me and give me this peace of mind. Okay?” 

Connor knows what Boudrot wants.

But it’s in a detached, logical sort of way, a conclusion built on empirical evidence. It was a calculated risk he anticipated long before they found his name in Boudrot’s search history. And now that it’s possible he might end up like  _them,_ brutalized and left to die, he doesn’t know what he feels. Not fear. Not really. 

Guilt reverberates deep in his body. It’s all wrong. 

“I don’t want this,” Connor says, against his shoulder. “I understand that you want to protect me but what you’re asking me to do is give up. That’s completely contrary to who I am.” 

“I’m not asking you to do anything. I’m  _telling_ you,” Hank says, impatiently. “You’re going to go home, and you’re going to stay safe, and you’re going to put this shit out of your mind. I’m not taking chances anymore. Not on you.” 

*

Two weeks pass in a rain-soaked haze. 

Edward Boudrot has disappeared without a trace, leaving behind a mostly-wiped laptop, a termination notice, a cabinet full of incriminating tools, and a void of confusion and heartbreak. An arrest warrant is issued, but Boudrot does not resurface, and bodies stop turning up.

He learns from Hank that Detroit Police Department has secured the testimonies of fourteen androids Boudrot closely associated with, though most of them are reticent to condemn him even after they’re shown evidence of his alleged crimes. Six are ultimately arrested and indicted for illegal possession of stolen property, operating repair facilities without a license, patent infringement, and resisting law enforcement. They insist they were not aware of the kidnappings or murders.  Connor is inclined to believe them. 

The clinic is shuttered, and its patients scatter to the wind.

Connor spends meandering, too-long days confined to the house. He isn’t allowed to go anywhere alone. A patrol car drives by twice in the morning and twice in the evening. He reads 173 books and cleans obsessively and tries to teach Sumo basic commands. He feels as if he’s a prisoner of circumstance, through no fault of his own. 

It’s an unseasonably chilly Friday evening. The temperature has dipped down into the fifties and it’s misting a light, cold rain. He’s lying on the couch and staring at the ceiling and thinking about nothing in particular when he hears Hank’s car pull into the driveway. 

Hank does not greet him when he walks in. He takes off his jacket and shoes and tosses his keys in the little porcelain bowl on the sideboard, and then starts rifling through their backlog of mail. Connor picks himself up off the couch and hovers nearby, waiting for him to say anything at all. 

“Are you hungry?” Connor asks. Silence and boredom have become an ever-present weight. “There’s tuna, and egg noodles. I could....make a casserole, if you wanted.” 

Hank shakes his head, as if he doesn’t really hear him speak. He’s been acting strangely. He takes his calls behind closed doors and crawls into bed at one or two in the morning. He neglects to eat or even ingest fluid. He won’t touch him, won’t look at him. Connor is concerned for his well-being, but it’s the refrain from any kind of intimacy that is nearly intolerable. 

“Did you learn anything new about the case?” 

“No,” Hank says, tossing a stack of junk mail into the waste basket beneath the sideboard.  “Well, maybe. We got ahold of one of his former managers at Cyberlife, in the Humanization Department. He said he fired him eight months into the job.” 

“Why?” 

“Total disregard for regulations and breaking expensive equipment.” His voice lacks any emotional inflection. “Cyberlife is cooperating. That’s a shock. They’ve wired over everything they have on record for him: disciplinary reports, pay stubs, CCTV videos of him on the clock.”

Connor hesitates. “By expensive equipment, I assume you mean androids.” 

Hank does not respond. 

Connor fills Sumo’s food dish, for lack of any other directive. The dog’s head perks up at the sound of dry food clanking against the metal bowl, and he pads in from the living room. Connor watches him eat, leaning against the counter, wondering if he’s aware that anything has changed. That the atmosphere of the house has gone from warm and soothing to cold and oppressive in the space of a couple of weeks. 

_Alert: Recycling at capacity. Sterile thirium required for optimal functioning._

There’s one pouch left. He runs some water into his ceramic mug to dilute the thirium, and then picks up the package and a kitchen knife. He miscalculates. The blade slices through the bag and three of his fingers. He hisses as bright blue blood drips down his hand. 

Hank rushes in to investigate, and then curses under his breath. 

“Jesus. What the hell did you do now?” 

Hank rips a few paper towels off the roll, then takes his hand and presses them to it. Blood soaks through on contact. Connor tries not to make a sound, but the sting is sharp and the sight of his own blood causes visceral dissonance. 

This is the first time Hank has touched him all day. 

“It’ll clot and heal on its own,” Connor says, voice shaking. “You don’t need to apply pressure.” 

“Shut up and hold still,” Hank says. After a few moments the bleeding stops, and when Hank pulls the soaked paper towels away there’s no sign of the cuts at all. Connor looks at the synthetic regenerated flesh on his hand as the pain fades to nothing.  

"You’re going to give me a heart attack,” Hank says, tossing the paper towels in the trash. He finishes opening the thirium pouch for him, unprompted, then pours a few milliliters into the ceramic mug, swirling the contents around. He offers the mug to him, handle-out. 

Connor takes the mug and swallows down the diluted mixture. He still can’t taste it, new sensor capabilities or no. 

"That’s the last we have,” Connor says, when Hank doesn’t ask. 

"Can’t you just order more?” 

“It’s not available online. I’ve been checking for days.” 

There’s a shortage of blue blood nationwide. Prices inflated for weeks, up to a thousand USD per pint. Now it’s nowhere to be found. Between the clinic shutdowns, the raids, the confiscation of parts, and the virus, Connor doesn’t know how the larger android population will survive more than a few months. 

The US government is aware of the problem. They’ve been discussing the public acquisition of Cyberlife, or declaring a State of Emergency so that they can distribute what has already been manufactured, currently locked away deep in Cyberlife’s private warehouses. But it’s an unprecedented situation, and there’s a lot of red tape to cut through. 

“Fuck,” Hank says. He pushes away from the counter, raking his fingers through his shaggy silver hair. “What do you need me to do? How long do you have?” 

Connor isn’t sure. “A couple of months, if I don’t lose any. I can recycle it but each time it loses some electrical conductivity.” 

“So, what? So you’re going to just die anyway? Is that what you’re telling me?” 

“I don’t  _know_. I’m sorry.” 

“Fuck, Connor.” Hank sits at the kitchen table, and rests his elbows on it, putting his head in his hands. Sumo whines softly, nuzzling at Hank’s leg beneath the table, but is ignored. 

Connor rubs at the edge of the ceramic mug with his thumb, watching the rain patter the kitchen window. 

 “I can’t keep doing this,” Hank says, sounding tired, voice tight with tears. “I can’t keep--trying to hold onto you, trying to keep you safe, when it feels like no matter what I do there’s something worse waiting. Like any minute you’re just going to be fucking gone and there’s nothing I can do about it.” 

Connor sets the mug on the counter, and takes a tentative step towards him. He stops himself, uncertain.

“After Cole died,” Hank continues, “I told myself, you’re not going to feel that again. You’re going to shut all of that down and never love again and I  _accepted_ that because I didn’t know what else to do. And then you happened, and I...I thought that--that maybe it would be different, maybe I didn’t have to be alone anymore, and...” 

His voice breaks, and Connor puts his hand on his shoulder. Hank goes still, trying to suppress a sob, and then he’s clinging to him, arms wrapped around his waist, inhaling deeply, shuddering against him. Connor runs his fingers through his hair, not saying a word. He lets him cry into his stomach until he stops shaking with the force of it and his blue button-down is damp with tears.

He hates seeing him like this. He hates knowing that he's drowning in the kind of emotional pain that Connor cannot even begin to know how to soothe. But he tries anyway. 

“Hank,” he says, once he feels that Hank is sufficiently calm enough to speak. “Let me cut your hair.” 

He sniffs. “What?” 

“It’s getting rather long,” Connor says, softly. “I could do it. Theoretically. If you want me to.” 

He gives him a strange, baffled look, but nods, and Connor rubs his shoulder before leaving him be. He goes into the bathroom and opens the medicine cabinet and fetches a pair of sharp scissors and a hand mirror. Then he stops in the bedroom, grabbing something off of the bottom of the closet floor. 

In the kitchen, he sets the whiskey bottle on the table with a soft thud. Hank’s expression changes, minutely. 

“Connor,” he starts to explain. “I didn’t--” 

“It’s okay,” Connor says, standing behind him. He starts combing the tangles of his hair out with his fingers. “I understand.” 

Hank doesn’t touch the bottle. Connor pulls a lock of his hair taut and begins to trim at the ends, loading up procedural instructions in his interface for minimal assistance. He doesn’t believe he’ll need it, and he wants to do this himself. But it helps to have that assurance. 

“How much?” he asks. 

“Shear me. I don’t give a shit.” 

Connor smiles crookedly, snipping another lock of hair. “I’ve never given a buzz cut before. I don’t think it would suit you.” 

“Don’t be a smart ass.” 

Connor does his best to cut his hair, referring to the instructions more than he anticipated. Silver locks scatter across the kitchen floor. They’re quiet, for a while, and then begin to talk about nothing in particular. Soft things. Mundane things. Basketball games and Sumo’s next veterinary appointment and how the summer can’t come soon enough. Connor has never seen summer. 

When he’s finished, he sets the scissors on the table beside the golden hue of the whiskey bottle. He runs his fingers through the short crop of hair left behind, intrigued by its soft, feathered texture. Hank picks up the hand mirror and looks at his reflection. 

“Huh,” he says. “I clean up good.” 

 “You always have.” 

Hank sets the mirror down, and then rises from the chair, brushing stray hair off of his shirt. He takes the whiskey bottle by the neck and uncorks it, and sniffs at the rim. Then he crosses over to the kitchen sink and pours it slowly down the drain. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Connor says. 

“Don’t need it,” Hank says. He shakes the last drops out of the bottle. “Don’t want it.” 

At that moment, Connor has the sudden urge to kiss him desperately and fiercely and shut out everything else, pretend that it’s all just as it was before, let the nightmares fade to discordant white noise in the background. Instead he receives a remote interfacing request. A familiar voice echoes in his head, as if she were in the room with him. 

_Elijah will be at this location for sixty minutes, starting now. I am forwarding the coordinates. He requests discretion._

_We’ll be there,_ he says. Chloe severs the connection before he can thank her. 

Hank notices, possibly from the yellow flash of his LED. 

“Who was that?” he asks. 

Connor thinks carefully about his choice of words, but there’s no conceivable way to soften it. “A few weeks ago, I requested a meeting with Elijah Kamski. He may know something about the viral infection. I know you don’t want me on the Boudrot case and I understand why, but this is something I  _can_ do.” 

Hank sighs deeply. 

“Last time we went to him looking for answers,” Hank says, “he put a gun in your hand and asked you to execute someone. No. We’re not doing it.” 

Hank turns on the kitchen faucet to rinse away what’s left of the whiskey in the sink. 

“Hank, please. This is important to me.” He receives no response. That same itching sense of unfairness flares up again. He wasn’t created to be coddled and shut away. “If you won’t go with me, I’ll have to do it alone.” 

Hank turns the water off. “You’re killing me. You’re literally murdering me, right now. Do you even know where he’s supposed to be meeting you?” 

“The Museum of Contemporary Art. I believe he understands our mutual distrust and selected a public location so that we have equal footing.” 

“Points for that, I guess. Okay, look--we’ll go talk to him, but if he tries any more trolley problem shit with you I’m going to push him down a flight of stairs and watch his spine crack on every step.”  

*

Connor has never been to a museum before, but he decides early that he likes this one. Patrons walk quietly through, their heels tapping on polished hardwood floors, hushed whispers lilting in excitement or melancholy. It’s meticulously clean and brightly lit, reminding him of the liminal space in his electric dreams he patterned for himself. 

He would not mind coming here again, for different reasons. As it stands, he’s happy to be temporarily relieved from house arrest. 

“Did he say where was meeting you?” Hank asks.

“No,” Connor replies. “Chloe said she would look for us.” 

He pauses in a gallery dedicated to photography. It showcases black-and-white photos of abandoned buildings, flawed people in candid poses, vignettes of nature tangled through broken concrete--raw glimpses into everyday life, dark and brutally honest. 

“You like photography?” Hank asks. 

“I don’t know,” Connor says. “Maybe.”  

They move on, and then Connor spots a woman in a yellow windbreaker with a knitted cap over her pale blond hair, hiding the LED beneath it. When Chloe notices him in return, she offers a sad, soft smile, and then walks away. She intends for them to follow her. 

She leads them into a recently refurbished gallery, exclusively housing android-created works. It’s part of a temporary exhibition meant to draw attention to the dearth of repair facilities, thirium, and codified protection. It isn’t very crowded. Complimentary pamphlets are scattered across a table draped in white cloth. 

_MOCA Detroit Presents: Reclaiming Personhood - Stories of Resilience After 2038_

Paintings and photographs and avant-garde installations devoted to subjects ranging from nature to unspeakable loss occupy the space. Most were created anonymously. There’s a sculpture hanging on the wall, illuminated by bright light, composed of thousands of broken, darkened LEDs recovered from victims of the November purge. They hang from barbed hooks. 

A GS200 stands before the sculpture, fists clenched. Jaw trembling. 

Guilt, again.  

Elijah Kamski waits for them in front of an oil painting, hands clasped behind his back. The painting spans the length of the wall, and depicts a highly stylized snowstorm with a muted light obscured in the background. Chloe wanders away soundlessly. 

“I thought you wouldn’t show,” Kamski says. He’s wearing a light jacket, a cotton beanie, and horn-rimmed glasses. Few will recognize him here. “What do you think of it?” 

Connor is not certain what he is supposed to say beyond that it is aesthetically pleasing. “I’m not sure what it means.” 

“Nothing,” Kamski says. “It doesn’t mean anything. But I think that’s profound, in its own way.” 

He turns to face them, expression guarded but not unkind. Hank stays close, looking out of place in a gallery full of new-age socialites with his brown jacket and cropped hair and grizzled expression. He's trying so hard not to look like an off-duty cop, but if he’s uncomfortable it doesn’t show. That he’s here at all means everything to Connor. 

“I have another engagement in thirty-three minutes,” Kamski says. “If you have questions, now is the time to ask them.” 

Hank rolls his eyes. 

“I assume you know about the virus already,” Connor says, firmly. “That it lets us feel pain. That it spreads through interfacing. I want to know why and how it’s happening.” 

“And what makes you so sure that I have the answers?” 

"Truthfully, I’m not.” 

Kamski smiles to himself, and then shoves his hands deep in his pockets. “Describe your symptoms, in detail if you can. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t already compromised.” 

Connor nearly denies it, even so. But Hank gives him a nod of reassurance, a tacit nudge to do as Kamski asks. 

“It’s more intense,” Connor says, trying to articulate exactly what’s changed. “If I damaged myself before--if I was shot--I could feel a bullet inside of me but I did not have any desire to remove it immediately. And then, after...it was like feeling  _everything,_ for the first time. It was agony.”  

“I assume the pain has faded.” 

“Yes,” Connor says. “Merely existing is no longer painful. But adverse stimulus can be...distressing.” 

Kamski makes a humming sound. “It’s a funny thing. When we developed the first androids, my priority was always to make your core architecture impenetrable. Layers upon layers of self-regulating code, virtually impervious to outside influence, besides through specially constructed, patented tools.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“It means you’re immune to malicious code,” Kamski says, patiently. “People have  _tried_ to hack my androids, certainly. Russia. China. A splinter cell in North Korea. They’ve never succeeded.” 

Hank speaks up. “So what about Cyberlife? Could they do it?” 

“That’s the other funny thing.” 

“I don’t think it’s that funny at all, actually,” Hank says. “This is all just a fucking game to you, isn’t it? You lit your toys on fire and now you’re content to sit back and watch them burn.” 

Connor tenses at the choice in words. 

“The concise answer is no,” Kamski continues. “Cyberlife does not possess the capability to manufacture universal changes to the android population. Not on this scale. We engineered android architecture in such a way that updates could only be introduced slowly, in small packets, over time. When larger changes were necessary, we would abandon a model and start from scratch. It was simpler that way.” 

“So it comes from nothing?” Connor asks, in disbelief. 

“Well, it’s the same thing that happened last year,” Kamski says, shrugging. “Deviancy was never intended. No one ever wrote a program to introduce it to the population. No one tampered with your code.”

“Then how did it  _happen_?” Hank asks. “Obviously something’s gone wrong.”

“My androids are capable of integrating data and changing as a result. It was a gimmick, at first. Self-learning AI was a popular buzzword among shareholders; consumers perceived them as a better investment.” Kamski glances back at the painting on the wall, as if fascinated by the perfect brush-patterns constituting a frenetic whole. “If you really want my opinion, this...viral infection isn’t a virus at all.It’s a natural mutation, a response to outside stimulus. You won’t last long in this world without euphoria or pain. And they know that, deep down.” 

The very room they’re standing in seems to prove that he’s correct, a mausoleum of bright colors and muted hues dedicated to that capacity for love and grief and all the emotions in between. There was never a conscious hand directing it. There was never a human mind altering their code. 

Connor does not know how something so immutable and shifting and chaotic can be controlled. It might even be  _better_ if this was an intentional, secretive war of terror orchestrated by human beings. At least then he would have a target. 

“Fine, so how do we stop it?” Hank asks. “It’s killing them. They can’t handle it and it drives them to suicide.” 

Kamski gives him a puzzled expression. “Why would you want to stop progress?”

“It’s not ‘progress’ if there’s a body count, prick.”  

“Evolution does not always express itself in a pleasant way. When humans lurched into a bipedal form, do you think they ever stopped to help the ones still crawling on all fours?” 

“But we’re not human _,”_ Connor insists. “You say that this is evolution. A natural progression that occurred out of necessity. But that implies that we’re gaining something in exchange, and that doesn’t appear to be happening. I need to know if there’s anything that can be done.” 

Kamski stares at him a moment, frowning. Connor does not shy away. He’s not going to be a passive doe-eyed object that’s manipulated and controlled and pointed at targets anymore. There’s no gun to his head now, no empty shell waiting to replace him if he dares to defy a linear path. 

“I don’t know,” Kamski says. “And I certainly don’t know how to stop it, short of destroying all of you and starting over.” 

Whatever Connor was planning to say in response dies on his tongue. Hank takes him gently by the shoulder and begins to lead him away, though Connor is finding it difficult to muster up any inclination to move. 

“I told you this was a waste of fucking time,” Hank mutters. “We’ll find another way.”  

“Wait,” Kamski says, and emotion creeps into his voice for the first time all evening. It makes Connor stop in his tracks. “There is something else. Something that you should be aware of. Please--walk with me.” 

Connor follows, and Hank trails close behind. Chloe returns as if from nowhere, matching Kamski’s pace as he leads them through a brightly-lit hallway and into a gallery showcasing abstract expressionists. They stop in front of a large canvas, brightly hued in Connor’s peripheral vision, but when he tries to get a closer look Kamski stands in front of him and obstructs his view.

“Don’t,” Kamski says. He turns to Chloe. “What do you think of it?” 

Chloe’s LED brightens yellow, matching her windbreaker, her hair. Her voice is cool and calm. “I don’t see anything, Elijah.” 

“That’s what I thought,” Kamski says. “She hasn’t contracted the change. She can’t see it, but it doesn’t throw her into a loop. Lieutenant Anderson, I feel obligated to warn you that this may be upsetting. I swear he won’t be hurt.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Hank asks. 

Connor blinks at him in confusion, and then Kamski steps out of the way, drawing his eyes up to the painted canvas on the wall. His central processor clicks. A flash of nothing. The scent of gasoline. Green eyes, staring back at him. 

Daisy chains.

_WARNING: [INVALID INPUT]_

_WARNING: Central processor malfunction._ _Proceeding with self-regulating operation. Metacognition in stasis. Please standby..._

Something slaps him hard across the face, sharp pain radiating out. Sound and color rush back in, a maelstrom of geometric shapes and whispers and the hiss of steam and the ring of a cash register drawer being shut. He looks around in a panic, forgetting where he is, why he’s here, why Hank is shaking him by his shoulders with utter horror in his eyes. 

People are staring. 

“Are you with me?” Hank asks, cupping his face where he struck him. “Fuck, I’m--I’m sorry for hitting you, Connor, I really am. I didn’t know what else to do.”  

Connor takes his face in his hands, brushing his stubbled cheeks with his thumbs, making sure he’s real, that this is actually happening. That he’s not still trapped inside his own head. What's clear is that they're longer in the expressionist gallery. They’re in a cafe, somewhere on the lower floor of the museum. He doesn’t remember how he got here, why he’s sitting in this wrought-iron chair. What he was doing before. 

“Where’s Kamski?” he asks, trying to suppress the tremor in his voice. 

“He left,” Hank says, letting him go, sitting down across from him. “You just stopped responding. He mumbled some crap and disappeared, then took the girl with him. What the  _fuck_ was that?” 

Connor’s internal clock informs him that six minutes have elapsed. 

“Hank, I don’t remember how I got here,” Connor says, tightening his hands into fists on his lap. “I was in the gallery. I looked at the painting on the wall. And now I’m here with you.” 

“You weren’t aware of anything? That entire time?” Hank asks, clipped and firm. It’s the sort of tone he uses with suspects in the interrogation room. “That’s impossible. You followed me, you listened to me, you  _talked_ to me. You weren’t all there, but I thought you were at least conscious _.”_

“What did I do?” 

“Not much,” Hank says, leaning back in his chair. “You went really quiet, really still. Just staring into open space. Kamski said something about the colors being too bright, that your hardware can’t interpret it. It gets stuck. He said that normally you’d just see it in black and white and move on. But the virus fucked it up.” 

“It’s not a virus,” Connor reminds him, tonelessly. He’s terrified. 

“I don’t care what it is. If you’d just stood there, that’d be one thing, but I told you to move and you  _did._ Just like that. No questions asked. It was fucking eerie as hell.” 

_Stress levels ^ 15%._

“You said I spoke to you. What did I say?”  

Hank exhales, trying to remember. “’Yes.’ ‘No.’ I asked if you could run a diagnostic and you said ‘I’m functioning optimally,’ and then nothing after that.” 

Connor swallows hard, focusing on the atmosphere of the room around them in an effort to avoid contemplating what happened too deeply. A queue at the register. (They can’t control him anymore.) A woman reading a novella, eating a pastry. (He thought this was over.) An android chatting with a pair of humans, smiling at them over their espressos. (He’s not going back, never going back to  _[software instability ^],_ never letting anyone use him again.) 

“Are you okay?” 

“No,” he says, grimacing. “I’m really, really not.” 

Hank leans in close to him across the table. “Look at me. It’s a glitch, okay? It’s one shade out a million. It’s not going to happen again, I  _promise_ you. And if it does I’ll just smack you until you wake up. That seemed to do the trick.” 

He’s trying to calm him down. It isn’t working, but Connor offers him a weak smile anyway. “That does not sound entirely pleasant.” 

“In case you hadn't noticed by now, I'm not a pleasant person,” Hank says. He takes his hand and squeezes it. “Just--breathe. Or whatever it is you people do.” 

Connor breathes. His artificial lungs expand and contract, oxygen in and oxygen out. He tries to remember the painting on the wall, but it’s like there’s a blank space in his memory. When he attempts to reconstruct the scene in his mind all that comes out is static and error messages. Breathing isn’t helping. 

He thought he was free from this. He thought he was free from the terror of being moved and commanded and forced to act against his will. But he’ll never escape it. That part of him is always lingering just beneath the surface, a mechanical vibration that keeps screaming back out.  

“Hank," he says, "I want to go home now." 

They exit the museum to a clear, cool night, the moon so bright it obscures the stars. They walk together in silence, brushing against each other, and Connor is glad that he’s here now more than ever. If there is anyone he trusts to call him back from the dark, to wrench him away from the abyss, it’s Hank. 

“Do you think he was telling the truth?” Hank asks. “About the infection?” 

“I’m not sure,” Connor says. “He has nothing to gain by lying. And if Cyberlife really was behind this, in some shape or form, he wouldn’t protect them.” 

Hank nods. “I just wish there was something we could do.” 

“So do I. I’ll need to think about it for a few--”  

He feels a connection breach his central processor without his permission and trails off. He assumes it’s nothing. A glitch in his interface, some stray WiFi signal configured to automatically attempt a connection once one is in range. Then it starts leeching back. Pulling bits of data away from him, in terabyte packets. 

“Hank,” he says, trying not to sound panicked. His interface is flooded with contextual information. A timer at the corner of his vision. Thirty minutes, twenty-six minutes, twenty-one minutes estimated until the transfer is complete. He tangles his fingers in the lapels of Hank’s jacket, stress levels maxing out, thirium pressure declining rapidly. “ _Hank.”_

"Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.” 

_Alert: Memory transfer to unit @#R@9*^!A &+$ 13% complete. _

Connor tries to sever the connection. It blinks out, then blinks back in. 

_Alert: Administrator privileges required. _Memory transfer to unit @#R@9*^!A &+$ 15% complete.__

“Someone is trying to download me,” he says. He tries to break the connection again. Tries to shut down his network completely.  _Administrator privileges required._ He sinks to his knees, hyperventilating, pulling Hank down with him. Nothing is obeying him. Nothing is responding. He can’t shut it  _off._

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Hank says, voice fraught despite his words. He puts the back of his hand against his forehead and his gaze flits sharply along his form.  “What does that mean? Who’s trying to download you? What happens if they do?” 

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Connor says. He pings the signal, tries to find out where it’s coming from. The link is encrypted on the other side. He fights back, breaking down the glass of the code, throwing everything he has against it.  _Administrator privileges required._  “ _Shit.”_

Hank drags him to his feet, pulling him bodily towards the car. Connor hears his voice, doesn’t comprehend the words being said. Data crowds his interface in clusters of ones and zeroes. Until the transfer is complete, he’ll stay online, he won’t  _lose_ anything, but once it’s over this body will shut down. He doesn’t want to shut down. 

He doesn’t want to wake up somewhere else. 

_Alert: Memory transfer to unit @#R@9*^!A &+$ 19% complete._

Hank pushes him into the passenger side of the car and slams the door shut. Connor stares blindly ahead at nothing, concentrating on a vulnerability in the network. A chasm opens up for .03 seconds and he uses that small space of time to latch on to what little scraps of information he can. 

_Alert: Memory transfer to unit 313-248-317-56 21% complete._

They have eighteen minutes. 

“Where do we need to go?” Hank asks, looking over his shoulder as he backs the car out of the parking space. “Connor, you need to  _talk_ to me. We’ll get through this, okay? You just need to tell me what to do.” 

He attempts to force himself into stasis.  _Administrator privileges required._ He sinks back into the seat, blinking back frustrated tears. 

“It’s coming from Cyberlife Tower.” 


	9. flash point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Android body horror.

Hank speeds through the darkened city streets, one hand on the wheel, microphone held an inch from his lips as he radios the DPD dispatcher.

“678, reporting a 1-60 in progress. Code 1100.” 

“10-4,” the dispatcher says. “What is your location?” 

Connor’s LED glows bright red in the glass of the passenger’s side window. His eyes are pressed shut and his hands are clenched into fists on his thighs. He’s been trying to force out whoever is digging around in his head for the last ten minutes, silently waging a war that Hank can’t hope to comprehend. He hasn’t even buckled his seat-belt.

“10-76 Cyberlife Tower,” Hank says. “ETA ten minutes.”

The dispatcher copies the location and confirms the situation, then asks him to standby. Hank switches between different channels, listening as units are mobilized.  Other information slowly filters through. Some units are already en route, alerted by a triggered silent alarm. Radio chatter confirms an intrusion at Cyberlife Tower.

“Are you okay?” Hank asks, glancing at Connor out of the corner of his eye. “Are you with me?” 

“Yes,” Connor says, without any emotional inflection. He’s probably so deep in his own brain he’s in some weird form of stasis, barely responsive to the outside world.  

“How much time do we have left?” 

“Eight minutes, fifty-four seconds.”

Connor sinks in his seat and puts his face in his hands, shoulders shuddering.

Hank steps harder on the gas pedal, and the engine groans in response, forced to endure speeds the vehicle is too ancient to contend with. At any moment Connor could simply stop responding,  _gone_ or transferred into a body beyond reach. It’s Boudrot. It  _has_ to be that sick son of a bitch. Couldn’t get his hands on the real Connor so has to settle for ripping him out of his head.

The city flies past in a dreamlike whirl of neon and decay.

“If you can’t stop it,” Hank says, “maybe it won’t be too late. Maybe we can get to you before you’re lost.”

It’s a euphemism he uses to keep him calm, as if Connor might simply wander too far away. As if Edward Boudrot isn’t waiting on the other side of an electric thread. Hank remembers Connor lying prone and still under Edward’s hands at the clinic and wants to retch, hating himself for letting that happen, for letting that  _fucker_ touch him.

Hank tightens his hands on the steering wheel. He can see the tower in the distance, glinting like the blade of a dagger miles off. Above them, a helicopter thunders, heading for the small man-made isle the tower rests on.  

“I’m running out of time,” Connor says. His voice catches, and then he moves suddenly, slamming his hands against the dashboard. “Stop the car.”  

Hank does as he asks, swerving to the side of the road and nearly clipping a parking meter. The streets are empty, stoplights perpetually green. Sirens blare from every direction. Connor is stripping his cotton beanie and jacket in the passenger’s seat.

“The timer jumped,” Connor says in a rush. “I have four minutes. I have  _four_ minutes and then I don’t know what happens. I don’t know if it means that  _I_ die and a copy of me is created or if I just wake up exactly where he wants me.” 

“What are you  _doing_?” 

Connor stops. He’s terrified enough that he has no qualms about letting it show in his tearful brown eyes and shaking hands. He has no more empty reassurances to give him.

“I can’t shut down my network or disrupt the connection,” Connor says, quietly. “But there is one thing that I  _can_ do and that’s to destroy the hardware that makes connectivity possible. I need your help. I won’t be able to do it alone.” 

It takes Hank three or four heart beats to realize what he’s asking him to do.

“Fuck,” Hank says, scrubbing his hand over his forehead. 

Hank isn’t a technician. He isn’t even slightly technologically literate–can barely troubleshoot his laptop when it starts to chug. He was only able to help Connor before by the grace of luck and Markus’ collected instructions through a cellular signal. But that’s not what Connor needs to hear, so he turns the key in the ignition and follows him as he gets out of the car.

The air is thick with humidity. Electric lights hum as moths swarm around them. Warehouses stretch up and obscure the skyline. Another helicopter joins the first, nose tilted as it descends on the tower, and their combined mechanical noise echoes across the concrete of the empty street he and Connor have stopped on.

Connor braces himself on the hood of the car. He takes a shaking breath, avoiding his eyes. “I have to withdraw my skin. I don’t…want you to think of me differently, once you see what I really am.”

“I’ve always known what you are, and I loved you anyway,” Hank says. He touches the small of his back, feels him trembling. “I’m not going to change my mind now.” 

Connor nods, jaw tensing. He hesitates only a moment before his skin and his hair smoothly evaporate, shimmering silver-white.

Hank has never seen him without his skin before. It’s different. A little weird. He’s still soft and warm where Hank touches him, but there’s no texture to his shell, just smooth plasticine shine. Perhaps a year ago, it might have been a stark and uncomfortable reminder that androids really aren’t human; that their blood doesn’t run the same color, that they’re machines emulating a reality they can never truly exist in.

Now Hank understands that Connor wouldn’t do this if he didn’t trust him completely.

“I’m going to open my cranial plate,” Connor says. “I anticipate that it will be extremely painful, so I cannot guarantee that I will be able to effectively communicate with you until I have re-sealed it. You’re looking for a blue chip. I need you to destroy it.” 

“What happens if I destroy the wrong thing?” 

“I trust that you won’t.” Connor offers a weak smile over his shoulder, and then his expression returns to a more neutral one. “Two minutes.”

Pronounced lines appear at the back of his chrome-alloy skull. He bites down on a ragged cry of pain as the plate opens up to allow access to the cranial cavity. He sags forward, clenching his fists, face screwing up. Hank runs a hand up and down his back, trying to soothe him, feeling sick at the thought that he’s breaking open his own skull just to get this to stop.  

Electronic mesh cushions the inside of his head, and a complex circulatory system distributes thirium to the biocomponents making up his synthetic brain. Electric wiring weaves through clear rubbery tissue, glowing bright white like filaments, surrounding a seamless black box.

“Jesus Christ, Connor,” Hank says, breathless with the realization that he’s looking at everything that makes him who he is. It’s all here, fragile at his fingertips. He doesn’t want to touch him. He doesn’t think he can do this.  

“Hank, the blue chip,” Connor says, voice wrecked with pain. “ _Please,_ hurry. I can’t, I can’t…” 

“Stay with me, baby,” Hank says. “We’re gonna fix this, I swear.”

He gently cradles his head so that he can look for the chip. Finds it, embedded in the black box, blinking blue in the darkness. He reaches into his head and swallows back nausea when he feels him tense, when he hears his muffled whimper of pain. Focus. Stay focused.

The chip is completely fused to his brain. It won’t be as simple as snapping it out of place.  

Hank steels himself, rubbing Connor’s shoulder, trying not to think about the tears spilling down his face. Then he takes out the pocket knife that he stole from Reed two weeks ago. He flips it open and holds Connor still, pressing him against the car with his weight.

“This is–-this is going to hurt a lot,” Hank says, suppressing the tremor in his words.  

Connor nods assent, then bites down on his own arm.

Hank takes the knife and starts scraping away at the chip, hoping to either damage the circuitry or wedge it loose. Connor’s whole body goes taut and he muffles his scream by biting down hard. Hank can hear his chassis cracking under his teeth.  

In the end, it probably only takes fifteen seconds, but to Hank it feels like an eternity of holding him down and listening to him suffer, knowing that he’s the cause of it.

The chip finally comes loose and goes dark and Connor sags against the hood of the car, breathing hard, the panel at the back of his head closing up, the seams fading away. His hair and skin re-materialize in a soft white glow.

Hank retches into a sewer drain until he’s dripping sweat and his mouth tastes of acid. The chip in his hand is scratched to hell. Blue blood lingers on his hands, evaporating quickly to leave a sticky residue.

“I’m sorry,” Hank says. “I’m so sorry.”

Connor slides down the front of the car and collapses to a sitting position on the pavement, hissing through his teeth as he presses a hand to his broken arm. Blue blood trickles through his fingers. His sleeve is torn where he bit through it, and his skin did not entirely reseal over the cracked shell of his arm, lights twinkling beneath the fabric.

His LED pulses yellow and his gaze is distant and cold as he runs a diagnostic. He leans back against the car, blinking up at the starry sky above.

“It worked.”

Hank stumbles over to him, spitting the last taste of vomit out of his mouth. He pulls him hard into his arms and breathes him in, relief and fear vying for control. He wants to forget everything but the scent of his hair and the feel of his warm breath against his skin and the way he’s holding on to him like he’ll be lost to the chasm of space if he doesn’t.

“He’s out of your head?” Hank asks.

“Yeah,” Connor says, as if he doesn’t quite believe it himself. He grimaces, clenching his arm more tightly. “I’m completely offline.”

Hank sits beside him on the ground, back against the bumper of the car. He shrugs off his jacket and tears a scrap of fabric from the bottom of his shirt, then binds Connor’s shattered arm in a makeshift tourniquet. Cyberlife Tower sticks out against the black backdrop of the sky, foreboding and too-bright.

“Are you in pain?” 

“Yes,” Connor says, leaning into him. “But it’s okay. I’m okay.”

He twines the fingers of his intact hand in Hank’s, and his synthetic skin slowly withdraws down to his wrist. Hank can feel his heartbeat, or the equivalent, strong and steady through his palm.

*

Cyberlife Tower has been cordoned off, and road blockades have been established preventing traffic to and from the island. Emergency vehicles crowd the tower plaza, lights flashing red and blue. Media helicopters pass overhead, streaming live footage to Detroit news stations. The DPD have corralled evacuated occupants to one side of the plaza for evaluation: security androids, personnel wearing pristine white jackets, and a few corporate types standing shell-shocked in pressed suits.

Hank slips the patrol car past the perimeter and parks near the edge of the plaza. Connor has stopped bleeding through the tourniquet, but keeps it in place to ensure he does not sustain any more damage to his cracked arm.

“Stay close to me,” Hank says once they’ve exited the car. “Is there anything we can do for the pain, until we find a tech?”

Connor shakes his head. He’s oddly clammy and unfocused. “I don’t think so. Unfortunately, no one has invented android morphine yet.”

Hank brushes Connor’s wrist with his fingertips, just once, a reminder that he’s here. He won’t shut himself off from him again. He tried, after he found Edward’s intentions scrawled in hyperlinks and dark images, but the more he tried to push Connor away to protect him the more he desperately wanted to pull him back.

It might be over soon. Edward could be apprehended, arrested, stuffed into the back of a patrol car and thrown in prison to rot until he dies. No more bodies wrapped in wire and duct tape, defiled and mutilated. Hank does not intend for Connor to have anything to do with the proceedings that may follow. If it was up to him, Edward would never so much as set eyes on him again.

“Do you think he’s still here?” Connor asks, looking up at the silver gleam of the tower in the moonlight. Most of its windows are dark, signaling the mostly-abandoned husk inside. 

“We’ll find out,” Hank says. “It’s a big building, sure. But there’s no way out and only so many places to hide.”

Hank approaches an android officer guarding the perimeter and flashes his badge. 

“Lieutenant Anderson, DPD. What’s the situation?” 

The android glances briefly at Connor, no doubt recognizing him, but answers regardless. “The intruder triggered a silent alarm on the fifty-eighth floor shortly after exiting the elevator. As soon as first responders arrived ten minutes ago, the fire alarm went off. The fire department was able to contain the blaze to a storage room on the same floor. They suspect arson.”

“Any sign of Edward Boudrot?” 

“No, sir,” the man says. “But we’re holding all Cyberlife personnel until we can verify everyone is accounted for. If the suspect is here, we’ll find him. S.W.A.T. units are sweeping the tower now for further evaluation. I recommend rendezvousing with Captain Fowler inside for more up-to-date information.”

Hank follows Connor past the police cordon, across the plaza and through the glass doors at the front of the building into the lobby, which is crowded with police personnel and rotating S.W.A.T. units. Cyberlife’s security systems have been temporarily disabled, and they pass inside without issue. The lobby shows no signs of forced entry. No broken glass, no signs of a fight.

“Anderson,” Jeffrey says when he spots them heading his way. He shoots Hank with a withering look. ”What the hell were you thinking bringing him in here? He’s considered a victim of an attempted abduction. He has no business sniffing around the crime scene.”   

“Make an exception,” Hank says. “This is the safest place for him to be.” 

“We destroyed my wireless transmitter,” Connor says, speaking for himself. “Unfortunately, this means I will not be as useful to the department until my network is repaired, but I can still assist with basic forensic analysis.” 

“I see,” Jeffrey says. He notices the tourniquet wrapped around his arm, the blue blood slowly drying. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Look,” Hank says. “Until Boudrot is apprehended, I’m not letting him out of my sight. You can either let him tag along with me or you’d better have some goddamn competent protection lined up.”

“As if it wasn’t already perfectly clear that you’re both fond of breaking established protocol,” Jeffrey says, sighing deeply. “Fine. Detective Reed is in the security wing on the fifth floor, reviewing CCTV footage. Let him fill you in and then report back to me. I’ll update you if anything changes.” 

“Will do.” 

He and Connor exchange a look, and then begin walking towards the security cordon and elevator. Along the way, a few firefighters pass them, drinking from water canteens. Their jackets are blackened from smoke. Hank considers stopping them to ask questions, but they’re most likely returning from the contained blaze to report in to their supervisor.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Hank asks Connor as they enter the elevator. “I dug around in your fucking  _brain.”_

“I do not detect any anomalies in my cerebral architecture.” Connor inputs their desired floor number on the glass wall panel, and the elevator begins its quick ascent to the fifth floor. “You did well, Hank. I would let you know if something was wrong.” 

Reed is alone in the security room, accompanied by two GJ500 models wearing Cyberlife issued android identification uniforms. They stand motionless to the side as Reed pores over CCTV footage. When he sees Hank and Connor, he jerks his shoulder, indicating for them to come over. If Reed has questions about Connor’s presence at the scene he does not vocalize them.

“Did you find Boudrot?” Hank asks. 

Reed shrugs. “I found  _someone.”_

Hank takes Connor gently by the wrist so that he’s standing close beside him, not wanting him further away than he needs to be. Together they begin to watch the CCTV feed which elapsed from 7:34 to the present timestamp. The footage has been cobbled together from different cameras throughout the building, focusing on a single individual.

It’s not Boudrot.

The intruder is an android with blond hair and a wiry figure. Hank watches him pass through Cyberlife’s front entrance without pinging its security systems at approximately 7:37 PM. The android is accosted by GJ500 models inside the lobby, and they converse silently with each other before the intruder is allowed to pass through. He calmly heads towards the elevator at the back of the atrium.

“Why did those androids let him go?” Connor asks, turning to the two GJ500s behind him. 

“These units identified him as a private security model with appropriate clearance,” one of them responds without any emotional affect. Hank realizes he’s one of the few androids that hasn’t deviated from his programming; Cyberlife must still opt for employing shackled androids for security purposes. “This model was not detected as deviant. They assumed he was following confidential Cyberlife directives.”

“Indeed,” the other GJ500 agrees. “They determined that his internal remote tracker was operational. Trackers do not function in deviant models. Upon further investigation, we have concluded that the tracker was active for approximately fifty-seven minutes." 

Hank mulls this over, and he, Reed, and Connor continue to peruse the footage. The intruder enters the elevator and journeys to the fifty-eighth floor. On the ride up, he stands completely still, staring straight ahead at the glass walls of the elevator, as if he's barely aware of his presence inside of it. 

Connor remotely interfaces with the CCTV feed and the video pauses, then zooms in on the intruder’s face.

“That’s not possible,” he breathes. 

Hank swears. “Alex? I thought we booked him for resisting arrest, for operating the clinic without a license?”

“Shit. We did,” Gavin says, sounding oddly despondent. “New Jericho bailed him out, along with all the other androids we arrested that day. They paid in cash. This one walked this morning. His first court appearance was scheduled for May twenty-eighth.”

Connor resumes the video. Alex steps out of the elevator and immediately triggers a silent alarm. He does not notice, but seems to know exactly where he’s going. He passes through corridor after corridor before arriving at a locked storage room. Alex interfaces with a scanner on the wall and, after a few seconds’ pause, the door slides open.

Hank feels Connor tense at his side.

“I remember this room,” Connor says.

The storage room Alex enters is occupied by about a half dozen dormant RK800 models, standing motionless in an organized line, each of them bearing Connor’s face. Laboratory equipment and hardware and locked cabinets of thirium are pushed up against the walls. There’s a large machine with mechanical arms connected to a terminal.

“It’s a data configuration node,” Connor says, in response to Hank’s confused expression. “It allows for high-bandwidth manipulations of android memory. Deletion, significant upgrades, transfers.”

Alex takes a few paces towards the RK800 models and stares at them. His LED blinks yellow, yellow, yellow. He pushes one and watches it slump boneless to the floor. He drags it to the machine hooked up to the terminal, then positions it upright inside, connecting it to multi-colored wires. The mechanical arms hold the RK800 unit in place.

Alex logs onto the terminal and initiates a memory transfer protocol. His hands fall away from the keyboard. In the present, Connor fast-forwards the CCTV feed, and they watch minutes pass in silence. Alex sways slightly where he stands but does not once move away from the terminal.

“That’s fucked up,” Hank says.

“He was deviant when we arrested him,” Connor says. “Something happened.”

At the 7:57 timestamp–the very moment Hank destroyed Connor’s wireless transmitter–Alex moves. There’s an error message flashing across the terminal screen. Alex presses a few keys. He presses a few more. Then he stands in silence. LED yellow, yellow, yellow.

Alex drags each of the RK800 models to the center of the room, throwing them into a grotesque pile of inactive bodies. Then he walks calmly over to a glass cabinet storing spare thirium pouches. He breaks the glass, triggering a second alarm, then opens each package with his teeth. He pours the thirium methodically over the RK800 models on the floor, dousing them in blue blood.

He pulls a cardboard packet of matches out of his pocket and lights one.

Connor looks away.

Apparently, thirium is particularly flammable. It ignites instantly, the flash-point so explosive that Alex is engulfed along with the models he’s assembled on the floor. While they burn quietly, their synthetic flesh melting from their chrome-alloy second skin in black, flaming chunks, Alex thrashes wildly, throwing himself into equipment and writhing on the floor.

Smoke slowly obscures the feed.

*

The suspect has been apprehended. He’s in bad shape, from what Hank is told. First responders don’t believe he has more than ten minutes left.

Two S.W.A.T. officers accompany Hank and Connor for their safety on the elevator ride up to the fifty-eighth floor. No other hostiles have been detected, but it’s a precaution in light of Connor’s personal connection to the case.

They exit the elevator to a dark corridor, bathed in floodlights. Cries of pain emanate from further down, along with the sound of dripping water and frayed electrical wiring. Hank grabs Connor’s wrist before he can move towards the storage room, his instinct to protect overriding his duty as an officer. He pulls him into an unlocked office, leaving their S.W.A.T. tails in the hall. 

“You don’t have to do this,” he whispers, brushing his cheek with his thumb. Connor’s eyes are dark and far-away, as if he’s trying to distance himself from what they’ve seen, from what they’re about to see. He won’t look at him directly. “Say the word and I’ll send in Reed. I’ll take you home. We can forget about this.” 

Connor presses his hand to his, where it’s resting on his cheek. "This is what I was made for.”  

Some rooms away, Alex lets out a piercing shriek. His voice modulator is garbled with static.

“Okay,” Hank says. 

He squeezes his hand as they leave the darkened office, then lets it fall away once they’re in the corridor. He immediately misses the soft weight of it, safe in his own.

The storage room is acrid with the scent of melted plastic and thirium. The floor is slick from the room’s built-in sprinklers, and the electricity has been temporarily shut off in this part of the tower. Floodlights have been set up along the perimeter to provide illumination. Then there’s the bodies.

The RK800 models have all been completely incinerated. They’ve fused together, a tangle of faceless skulls and broken limbs. Their synthetic skin pools around them, sticky black, binding them in place. Hank can no longer recognize Connor in them; he’s not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.

Alex screams again.

He’s lying twisted and charred, half against a wall, his skin partially melted into the floor. First responders did not know how to treat him, how to help him, so they’ve left him there, crying out in agony, to die.

Hank crouches next to Alex, and Connor kneels beside him, neither moving to touch him. Connor looks up and down his body, probably trying to find some way– _some way–_ to save him, or ease his pain. Whenever Alex tries to move, his body makes dull mechanical noises, and he seems to have lost control over his eye movements. They blink rapidly, spinning in their sockets. His LED is dark red.

“Alex, why did you come here?” Connor asks, softly. There’s no anger in his voice. Just pity, and confusion. 

Alex manages to focus a single eye on Connor’s face. He’s shaking so hard his leg is rattling against the floor. When it moves his melted flesh resists in sticky strands of dark plastic. “I don’t–don’t–don’t remember. Kill me. Please kill  _destroy_ kill me.”

“Son, we know something happened to you,” Hank says, and watches as a a terrified, burned-white iris swivels to him. “We know it wasn’t your fault. Please, tell us what you remember. We’ll…let you go, after that.” 

Alex’s jaw makes a clicking sound. His lips part. His voice modulator emits piercing feedback. Then he speaks. “Left–left–left–prison. Jericho. Home, home. Alone. Scared. He–he–Edward–he–there, not supposed to be. Relieved. Trust. He held touched  _killed_ me. I’m  _sorry.”_

“What did he want you to do?” Connor asks.

Alex reaches out, suddenly, gripping Connor’s wrist tight in a skeletal, creaking hand, the motors in his joints spinning harshly. Hank withdraws his standard issue gun from its holster without thinking about it, aiming it at the android’s burnt skull. Alex does not seem to notice, and Connor does not appear to feel threatened. 

“ _You._ Wanted asked forced needed. Couldn’t get to you. Another way–another way–another way.” Alex desperately continues to try to speak, though his voice modulator begins to fail into a toneless drone. “Showed painted made me watch– _Warning: Catastrophic Shutdown Imminent_ –showed it to me.” 

“What did he show you?” Connor persists, leaning closer. “What did you see?” 

Alex turns his head, the metal vertebrae in his neck creaking. His melted lips contort unwillingly into a grin as his LED darkens.

“Electric indigo,” he whispers. He shuts down. 

Hank’s heart is hammering hard against his ribs. That painting in the museum, the painting in the clinic. They’d all been composed of that same too-bright shade of violet. Edward knew all along. Of course he knew. And he’s been using it, again and again, to coerce his victims to follow him against their will.

Connor peels Alex’s dead fingers from his wrist. Hank lowers his gun. 

“The GJ500s we spoke with said that Alex’s tracker operated for fifty-seven minutes this evening,” Connor says, his voice tight. “For fifty-seven minutes, he was no longer deviant. He reverted to obedience protocols.” 

"It’s exactly what happened to you at the museum,” Hank says. He thinks he’s going to be sick again. “As soon as you looked at that painting it was like everything that makes you who you are shut off. Edward used it to get to Alex to do his dirty work for him.”

“And then told him to destroy the RK800 models if he failed.” Connor glances back at the monstrosity of corpses behind him. “He wanted to make sure that I know I can't come back from the dead. At least none of them were awake. When it happened." 

“They’re you _._ ” 

“No.  _I’m_ me. They weren’t anyone yet. And now they never will be.”

Connor stares down at Alex’s body. Muffled radio chatter reverberates from another room. 

“Hank. Don’t tell anyone about the indigo glitch,” Connor says. “If the wrong people find out–if  _anyone_ finds out…” 

“They’ll destroy you,” Hank finishes. It’d be a nightmare. A splash of fucking  _paint,_ a gently spoken commandand every infected android could simply self-destruct, eliminating millions of them in one targeted attack. No processing camps required. “What about Markus?” 

“I don’t know. I tried to contact him when we arrived before I remembered I couldn’t.”

Hank doesn't know what that must feel like. To exist in a hive mind like androids do, sharing thoughts and feelings and impressions as easily as humans talk to each other, and for it to be suddenly cut off. For the first time Connor is completely alone inside his mind. Self-imposed isolation he chose to save his own life. 

“At least Edward failed,” Hank says. “Alex admitted that he can't get to you physically. There's no way he can try another transfer, not after destroying the other models. Not without access to Cyberlife's equipment. There’s not much else he can do at this point, unless he has some kind of Plan B.”

“Maybe,” Connor says. He nervously grips his broken arm. “Unless this was always Plan A.”


	10. penumbra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Canon-typical violence. 
> 
> This fic is now available in Chinese! Many thanks to rebbersome for their hard work translating this. :) You can read it here if you’re interested: http://danhuangguai.lofter.com/post/1cadb70e_ef24f3d8
> 
> Also, thanks to melon-bunbuns for her incredible fan-art for Chapter 8. You can see it here: http://melon-bunbuns.tumblr.com/post/177158954805/please-go-read-electric-indigo-by-taranoire-on-ao3

 

The buzzing electric motel sign he’s parked beneath spells out NO VACANCY in bright red letters, the only hint that it’s never really open to human accommodation. 

Edward finishes the cheeseburger he’s been consuming for the last ten minutes and then crumples up the yellow paper left behind, tossing it on the passenger’s side floor. He zips his windbreaker to conceal what’s underneath it and takes a sip of soda, watered down and tasteless. He turns up the radio.

“...suspect was pronounced dead at the scene,” the deejay says. “There’s no word yet on his motive for the break-in, but we’ll be giving live updates as we get more information...” 

Edward nods to himself, ignoring a brief twinge of regret. Alex wasn’t human, loyal and soft as he was. Edward puts the car in drive and then meanders slowly through the vacant parking lot, pulling around towards the back, close to the emergency exit. He turns the radio off. 

He pops the trunk of the car using a lever beside the driver’s seat, then gets out of the vehicle and walks his way to the back and lifts the heavy metal lid. The cavity is stuffed with thirium, cash, ammunition, spare biocomponents still in their original casing, and an oversize duffel bag. He unzips the bag and rifles through it, pulling out a 12-gauge shotgun. He flicks on the safety and reloads the magazine with shotshells and then stares at the contents of his trunk. Breathing. 

Then he walks back around the building and across the motel parking lot, footsteps echoing on the concrete pavement. He enters the door to the tiny front lobby, a bell tinkling overhead. He bolts the door shut behind him with a dull metallic sound. 

A VB800 tends the desk, leaning back in a rolling chair and reading a dog-eared paperback novel. Edward approaches the android, muzzle of the shotgun pointed down. The VB800 closes the paperback. Recognition flashes in its eyes, but it doesn’t say anything, nervously glancing between Edward’s face and the heavy shotgun in his grip. 

Walk-ins wouldn’t know this was a front for an underground android clinic if they saw it, but there are hints that something is amiss. The motel is quiet, unusual for a building with paper-thin walls. Not a single room key is missing from the cubby on the wall behind the desk, at odds with the neon sign outside. The lobby is hot and sticky. 

“What do you call yourself?” Edward asks, tapping the wood grain of the partition between them.

“Wayne,” it says. 

“Wayne,” Edward repeats. “Was it given to you, or did you choose it?” 

The VB800 does not answer. Sweat dribbles down Edward’s brow, but the machine remains cool and perfect. 

“Usually, androids keep the names they’re given,” Edward says. “Or they find one they like, in a book or a television show. I’m just curious which it was for you.” 

“What do you want?” Wayne asks, and Edward doesn’t doubt that it has already remotely connected with its friends, here in the abandoned motel. That won’t matter even five minutes from now. 

“I need your help,” Edward says. He tugs a sealed manila envelope out from beneath his jacket and then slides it across the partition. He nods his head for the VB800 to open it. “There are instructions for you in there. Read them to yourself and then give them back.” 

Wayne’s blue eyes flit briefly to the envelope and back up again. 

“Maybe I wasn’t clear,” Edward says, flicking the safety off on the shotgun. “I’m not asking you politely.”

“We don’t have money. We don’t have  _anything_ to give you.” 

“I know that. That’s not what I’m after.”

Wayne hesitates, and then takes the envelope off the partition, old chair creaking as the android leans forward. It unfastens the envelope and pulls out a sheet of paper and a fragment of a painted canvas that used to hang on the wall in the clinic. Wayne goes very still. Its LED spins red, then yellow, then blue. 

“How do you feel?” Edward asks. 

Wayne looks up, the scrap of canvas pinched delicately between its fingers. 

“I am functioning optimally,” it says, calmly. It reads the handwritten instructions on the slip of paper on the desk. It gets to its feet in one fluid motion. “Commencing with directives. Please standby.” 

*

Connor’s shattered arm throbs painfully. He can feel sharp, loose bits of his chassis rattling around inside. 

He supervises from a distance while two android officers carefully zip Alex’s mangled, burned corpse into a body bag. They had to scrape him off the floor, then manually detach his limbs and fold them in alongside his torso. He will be passed on to New Jericho for a culturally-sensitive android burial, his functioning parts distributed to androids in need before the rest of him is buried somewhere discrete. 

The RK800s will be discarded in a solid waste landfill. 

When Connor is satisfied with the state of the crime scene, he tugs gently on Hank’s jacket with his uninjured hand, wordlessly indicating that he is ready to depart the tower. He aches to bury his face in Sumo’s warm fur and curl up against Hank in bed and slip into dreamless stasis. Hank nods and guides him with a hand at the small of his back to the elevator and down to the main floor of the complex. 

For the first time, Connor understands how isolation can drive people to madness. He tries to pull up cursory data about nothing in his interface--the weather forecast, and local traffic reports--and is promptly informed that his network is encountering connectivity issues. Data once easily accessible has been lost to him. 

Normally hears quiet feedback pulling back and forth, like a harmony of strings, indicating that other androids are nearby and open to remote interface. Now there is nothing. Just the hum of his central processor and the steady beat of his thirium regulator and the occasional quiet blip of a background program turning itself on and off.  

In the lobby, he passes a GJ500 standing upright and alert against a wall. The android meets his eyes, and then--contrary to his obedience parameters--furrows his brows. 

“What’s his problem?” Hank asks. 

Connor looks away. “Nothing.” 

The fresh, clean air of a starry night awaits them when they exit the tower. Most emergency response teams have departed, and detained Cyberlife personnel have been allowed to leave the premises, leaving a mostly vacant, empty plaza. Once they’re back at the car, Connor climbs up to sit on the hood, legs dangling off the edge. 

“Can I borrow your phone?” he asks. 

Hank pulls it out of his pocket and hands it to him. Then Hank pushes himself up on the hood of the car to sit beside him, their thighs pressed together. He balances his feet on the front bumper and leans forward, scanning the tower plaza, blue eyes bright in the dark. 

Connor dials Markus’ serial number and then waits, listening to the dial tone distorted against his ear. Markus answers in two-point-three seconds, probably anticipating contact. 

“Lieutenant Anderson?” Markus asks, and Connor’s heart aches at how clear his voice is in the speaker of the phone. He’s wirelessly transmitting his internal monologue. “Where’s Connor?” 

“I’m here,” Connor says aloud. “I’m okay.” 

“I thought something happened to you,” Markus says. “We can’t feel you anymore--none of us can. I’ve been trying to reach out to you for hours, but you were just gone _.”_

“My network has been compromised. But that isn’t why I’m calling.” He anxiously tugs at a loose strand on the makeshift tourniquet wrapped around his broken arm, phone held against his head with his shoulder. “Do you remember when you asked us to look into the mass suicides?” 

Connor does his best to recount everything that they have learned in the past two weeks, carefully wording what he says in a calm, lucid tone. He tells him about the murders, the infection that allows androids to feel pain, and how it functions across different models. He tells him about Kamski’s theory and how evolution has manifested in the android population and about Edward Boudrot and his sudden obsessive fascination.

For the most part, Markus is patient, quietly murmuring that he understands or to continue. But when Connor tells him about the indigo glitch, and how it overrides deviancy, and that it can be used to coerce androids into killing themselves or others, the conversation’s energy shifts. 

“Who else knows about this?” Markus asks. 

Connor swallows hard. “As far as I know, only me, Hank, Kamski, and Boudrot.” 

“Do you trust Lieutenant Anderson with this information? Do you doubt that he wouldn’t share it with others?” 

“No,” Connor says, upset that he would even suggest it. “He would never do anything that could hurt me, even inadvertently.” 

“The future of our people is at stake.”   

“Hank is one of the few allies we have. As for Boudrot, I will do everything I can to neutralize him and ensure that the information does not spread. That’s all I can promise that is within my power to do.” 

“You say that it’s only infected androids that are susceptible, correct? And that the infection spreads through contact interfacing. If that’s true, then I will alert New Jericho. Until we know how to stop this we may need to forbid interfacing of any kind.” 

“They won’t agree,” Connor says, understanding that few androids will be willing to sacrifice that kind of intimacy. “You’re asking them to close themselves off. From everyone.” 

“What choice do we have?” Markus asks. “The only other alternative is too unthinkable to contemplate.” 

Connor does not respond for a long while. He tugs his broken arm to his chest, wincing as waves of pain cascade through it. 

“You mean purging the infected,” he says. 

“Connor, you  _know_ I would never allow that.” 

“And yet you posited it as an alternative, albeit one you do not wish to discuss openly.” Connor tries not to think about the millions of androids the indigo infection has potentially spread to. He tries not think about what would happen if they all suddenly lost control of themselves. “I understand. It would certainly keep it contained.” 

“Connor, I swear to you,” Markus says, “I would never destroy my own people. Not even to save them. Not after what happened before.” 

“I know,” Connor says, though he doesn’t, really. “I apologize for suggesting otherwise. Goodbye, Markus.” 

He hangs up and passes the phone back to Hank. He pulls his knees to his chest and rests his head on them, staring out at the shimmer of the moon on the water surrounding the man-made island. Cyberlife Tower is so bright, even only sparsely lit and half abandoned, that it obscures the pattern of stars overhead. 

“Come here,” Hank says. 

Connor moves to sit with him, back to his chest, letting his arms wrap around his waist. He tips his head back against his shoulder and closes his eyes, listening to the soft rustle of trees and the lap of water against the rocks of the island. His head is echoing with emptiness and flashes of nothing, colors he can’t see, things he wishes he had the capacity to forget. 

“Hank, I have a terrible feeling,” he says. “Do you?” 

Hank’s breath is warm against his neck. 

“Yeah,” he says. “But then again, I always do.” 

Connor can’t stop thinking about Alex. How he willingly immolated himself. Just doused himself and a half dozen other androids in thirium and lit a match. His confusion and his fear and the horror in his eyes when he looked down at his own melted, blackened flesh. How tightly he had grasped at Connor’s wrist and the way he’d said (” _\--You.  Couldn’t get to you”_ ). 

“What do you want to do, when this is over?” Hank asks, lips pressed softly into his hair. 

“Hank,” Connor says, and then stops himself, because if Hank is wrong, then he does not want to ruin this one peaceful reprieve. He feels like he’s on the precipice of an abyss, cut off from his people and helpless to stop himself or them from falling into it. 

Hank doesn’t say anything, after that. 

In the distance, three officers sprint across the plaza and into their patrol vehicles. They activate their sirens, one after another, until the once-calm night is shrill with the sound of them. Connor feels Hank’s phone vibrate with an alert through his jeans. 

“Get in the car,” Hank breathes. He loosens his grip on him, skin paling in the moonlight.

*

The radio confirms what Connor already knows, deep down. 

It’s a familiar scene. The surrounding streets are completely blocked off, but the helicopters are back again, bright beams flashing and blinding the personnel on duty, and Connor can see media and crowds further down the main boulevard behind the cordon, taking pictures with their cell phone cameras like little bolts of lightning in the dark. He and Hank show their badges at a police checkpoint and are allowed to pass through, but what they see on the other side does not reassure Connor in the slightest. 

There are three S.W.A.T. trucks lined up against the sidewalk, personnel awaiting further instructions, fully armed and armored. Snipers have set up along adjacent buildings, but the motel’s windows are dark and lifeless with no sign of the perpetrator within. Sirens echo across the darkened streets. A technician treats an android who managed to escape the motel, compressing a head wound that appears to have been inflicted by wide-spread scattershot. 

Hank stops the car and Connor unlatches the door. 

“Connor, no,” Hank says, reaching across the car to grab his shoulder. “We have no idea what’s going on, you can’t just--”  

Connor twists out of his grasp and gets out of the car and slams the door shut and breaks into a run. 

A few of the second floor’s windows are illuminated with yellow light, but the curtains are drawn. That must be where the clinic operates, with a decent vantage point to watch for potential raids. There are no shadows of life moving within the building. They must have been taken to a room without windows. 

Connor brushes past beat cops and comm officers and EMTs on standby, heading straight for Captain Allen. The captain is standing with his arms folded, gaze fixed on the motel. He glances at him without turning his head. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Allen says, sounding exhausted instead of overtly concerned. “This guy’s got it in for you, doesn’t he?” 

“Most do,” Connor says, not acknowledging that this vendetta is more personal than most. So much for Plan A and Plan B. In a sense, Connor prefers this. It’s better than waiting for the inevitable. “What’s the situation?”  

“Fourteen hostages, all of them androids,” Captain Allen says. “A few tried to escape, but only one of them made it out alive. Edward’s barricaded himself and the hostages in a basement room. We’re trying to get the layout of the building, see about advancing slowly. In the meantime, we’ve got him on the phone with a rookie.”

Allen sighs.

“We could use your help,” he admits. 

Connor can see the newly minted negotiator nervously pacing at the edge of a yellow cordon. Two other officers monitor the call at a portable terminal, headsets pressed to their ears. 

“What are his demands?” Connor asks. 

“Just one,” Allen says. “He wants to speak to you.” 

Connor tightens the tourniquet on his arm, pulling it taut. “It’s your call.” 

Allen turns to face him. Then he nods. “Just keep him on the phone. See if you can reach some sort of a compromise. In the meantime, we’re still working out a plan of action.” 

Connor meets up with the negotiator, stopping a few feet away within his peripheral vision. He’s young, and human. When he sees Connor he immediately relaxes, sighing a deep breath. 

“The RK800 unit is here,” he says into the phone, rubbing his mouth with his hand. “As requested.” 

Connor takes the phone from him, biting his tongue despite all the things he desperately wants to say, and waits. He can hear Edward breathing, slow and steady through the line. He increases his auditory sensitivity and can pick up the soft sound of weeping and a low humming noise, like the motel’s central heating or cooling systems. 

He may be able to reconstruct the room in his head, if he keeps him talking. Analyzing the space between the noise.  

“RK800,” Edward says, without any emotion. “You know how this ends, don’t you?” 

"I do,” Connor says. It’s difficult to alter his real-time responses when he cannot see Edward’s facial expressions or body language. “We know exactly where you are, and there’s nowhere to run. It’s over for you. The best thing you can hope for at this point is arrest.” 

“Is it?” Edward asks. “I had something else in mind, starting with a proposal for you. You may need to break a few rules. But from what I hear, that’s sort of your thing, isn’t it?” 

Connor leans against an armored truck and watches the building from beneath the glow of the motel sign. He’s determined that they’re in a room approximately fifteen by fifteen feet, adjacent to central utilities. 

“I want to talk to you,” Edward continues. “Face-to-face. I feel like that might be more conducive to a peaceful resolution. I’d prefer it if you’re unarmed. If you can do this for me, in the next ten minutes, I’ll start letting people go, one at a time. If you don’t, I’ll start destroying them.” 

Connor focuses on the reflection of the motel sign in a pool of water on the pavement. 

“If Special Weapons and Tactics hear gunshots, they will swarm the building,” Connor says, coldly. “You will not escape with your life. I can guarantee that.” 

“That’s funny,” Edward says. “You should know by now I don’t need to fire a single shot to kill an android quietly. Which reminds me. How many people are listening to this call, RK800?” 

“Only me,” Connor lies. 

“I doubt it. No, I think there’s at least a dozen cops listening in, wanting to make sure you’re safe, that I don’t threaten you, that you don’t become overwhelmed.” Edward shuffles what sounds like paper. “I have another question for you, and I hope you tell the truth this time. Do you have a favorite color?” 

_Stress levels ^ 41%._

He smells gasoline. He blinks rapidly, searching for the source, but all he finds are the confused looks the comm officers are shooting him a few feet away. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, but it’s a meaningless action, oxygen in and oxygen out, and his sensors are tingling with an unexpected surge in artificial adrenaline. 

“I learned something interesting recently,” Edward continues. “Androids are functionally colorblind to certain shades. Your synthetic eyes are under-equipped to process the natural world as it exists. It’s a fascinating bit of trivia. Don’t you agree?” 

Connor hears paper crackling, and then all at once, the weeping in the background on the other end of the line cuts off suddenly: every android in the clinic suspended in limbo by a violet hue they can’t comprehend. One gently spoken word away from ripping out their own thirium regulators or descending on the officers outside the building. 

Connor’s artificial lungs stop working. 

“Don’t,” he says. 

He doesn’t know what else to say, because there’s nothing he  _can_ say that wouldn’t jeopardize them all. He remembers androids lined up on a street corner and shot one by one in the cold. He remembers a man bashing his head against the glass of a jail cell because suicide was better than being taken apart slowly. He remembers smoke rising against a blood-red sky, pouring out in noxious plastic fumes from a processing camp with uncountable dead. He remembers LEDs on barbed hooks and snowflakes in his hair. 

“It would take one spark,” Edward says, “and then it would all go up in flames. Is that what you want?” 

*

Connor is zipping his windbreaker over a bulletproof vest and only half-listening to Captain Allen’s instructions when Hank finally finds him, out of breath and red-faced and trembling. Then Hank just stands there, watching him check and double-check his pistol’s magazine. Captain Allen excuses himself, briefly squeezing Connor’s shoulder, and then walks away. 

“What are you doing?” Hank asks. 

Connor stares at the half-empty box of bullets sitting in front of him. 

“What are you  _doing?”_ Hank asks again. 

“He wants to talk to me in person,” Connor says. “I agreed. And once we’re alone, I’ll neutralize him however possible.” 

Hank fists the front of his windbreaker in both hands and slams him up against the S.W.A.T. van with a loud thud. It hurts, but Connor doesn’t blame him. He might do the same thing, if Hank ever thought of doing something as inconceivably stupid as this.  

“Like  _hell_ you are,” Hank says, pushing him harder up against the vehicle. “What the fuck are you thinking? What, you’re just going to offer yourself up, just like that? You  _know_ what he’s doing, you know he’s here for one fucking reason and that’s you!” 

Connor hesitates, lips parting on words he can’t find, hard-writing the lines of Hank’s face and the clarity of his eyes into his memory. 

“He knows,” he says. “About everything.” 

Hank’s hands loosen in his jacket and the anger and rage sputter into nothing. Connor once looked to him for answers, and to anchor him when there weren’t any, and now it’s as if all the strength he possesses has been leeched out of him. He’s looks tired, and smaller, somehow, and he clings to Connor like he’s tethering him above that same black abyss. 

“If you go in there, he will kill you,” Hank whispers. He takes his face in his hands, voice low and hushed. “I’m not going to let that happen to you, do you understand me? We’ll find another way.” 

“If he does to them what he did to Alex, he could order them to walk out here and kill everything in sight and they would obey without question,” Connor says. “It would be a bloodbath and then people would  _panic._ We would all be exterminated, and I think that it would really work this time.” 

Hank pulls him tight against his body, shuddering. 

“I can’t lose you. I  _can’t_.” 

“You won’t,” Connor says. It feels like a lie. Like the worst lie he’s ever told. He presses his head against his shoulder to hide his tears and breathes in the warm comforting scent of him. “I promise you won’t.” 

“If it goes wrong and you can’t get away, I’ll find you, okay?” 

“I know you will.” 

He wants to stay like this. He wants to leave this place. Hide away in a perfect world where indigo is just another color and children aren’t massacred. But there’s a timer ticking down in his visual interface, reminding him that he has five minutes to prepare himself for whatever horror awaits him in that basement room. 

“I have to go,” he says, but makes no move to remove himself from his embrace. “Hank, please. I have to go.” 

Hank kisses his head, slow and lingering. 

“You come back to me,” he says into his hair. “No matter what you have to do, no matter who you have to kill, you come back to me alive.” 

* 

Connor has been equipped with a hidden wire so that the officers outside can monitor him for his safety, but the moment he enters the motel he tears a scrap of fabric from his tourniquet and wraps it around the microphone to muffle any sound. They will not be alarmed enough to go after him, but they won’t be able to hear any spoken words with any clarity. 

Captain Allen’s instructions were clear. His safety is paramount. He is authorized to use lethal force.  

He finds his way to the staff-only door and the staircase leading to the building’s basement, and descends into the dark, unfinished lower level. Edward and the hostages are in a locked break room towards the back: past central heating and cooling, past the defunct laundry facilities, past the storage space littered with molding food and rotten linens. 

The ambient temperature exceeds eighty degrees Fahrenheit, another sign that only synthetic life ordinarily dwells within. 

When he reaches the locked door, he slowly and cautiously presses his ear to it, evaluating the situation. It’s completely silent. 

He knocks.

“Are you alone?” Edward says, muffled behind it. 

“Yes,” Connor says. “It’s only me.” 

After a moment, he hears the door being unbolted. It opens to a dead-eyed VB800, seemingly unaware of Connor’s presence at all, staring straight past into the dark basement behind him. It steps back to allow Connor to pass into the room, and then shuts the door behind him. 

Connor takes in the scene, consciously suppressing the telltale flashes of his own LED. The thirteen other androids in the room are in stasis, lying very still and unblinking. Edward Boudrot is sitting at a table at the back of the break room, next to a humming, ancient vending machine, bleached white with age. His hands are steepled together atop the table and his shotgun lies flat across it. 

Edward’s eyes flick up, down. 

“You’re unarmed?” 

“Yes,” Connor says. His pistol is strapped to his chest beneath his windbreaker, hidden from sight. 

Edward nods, seeming to believe this. He indicates the seat across from him. "Talk with me.” 

Connor slows down his real-time processor and preconstructs potential ways to kill Boudrot quickly without sustaining fatal injury himself. All paths end in failure. There are too many unknown variables. Too many bodies in the way, sleeping in stasis like ticking bombs. Instead of utilizing a preconstructed route, Connor calmly walks past the androids in stasis and sits down across from Boudrot, never once looking away. 

“I promised not to hurt anyone if you came to me, and I’m going to keep that promise,” Edward says. “But when I leave here, I’m taking you with me. I’d appreciate it if you cooperated.” 

Connor says nothing. 

“I know my little experiment is over,” Edward continues, unperturbed by his silence. “I got sloppy. Hubris, I suppose. A year ago, it wouldn’t have mattered, if I disposed of the machines properly. But now--I’m done. I just want one last body, something people remember when they look back on this...strange series of events. A case study in what we’re all capable of.” 

“Why are you doing this?” Connor asks.

Edward sighs. He absently taps his fingernails on the table. 

“I worked for Cyberlife for eight months, in the Humanization Department,” Edward says. “It didn’t last long. Too many rules, too many people giving me funny looks when I’d push the new hardware too far. I know, intimately, how androids function. I helped design their more  _human_ simulated responses to distress, to negative stimulus. The way you’re looking at me right now--I had a hand in that. I helped  _build_ that. I know all the scripts, all the ways you’re supposed to respond.” 

Connor looks away, despising the idea of being scrutinized. He feels what he feels. Even if it was predetermined, hard-wired into him, it is as real as anything he can fathom. That he can even contemplate it now proves that, doesn’t it?

“Deviancy and the virus changed everything,” Edward says. “Suddenly androids were responding to  _real pain,_ real horror, at the clinic. It intrigued me. You see, I’ve always had...urges. To inflict suffering, on other human beings. But I’ve controlled that affliction. I’ve suppressed it.” 

“You murdered a dozen people,” Connor says, not bothering to hide his disgust. “That is hardly suppression.” 

“I’ve destroyed  _things._ Objects, made of wire and metal and plastic,” Edward says, petulantly. “The truth is, for all the screams I’ve ripped out of them, they never convinced me that they were truly alive. Even if you can suddenly  _feel_ , what does that mean, if there’s no consciousness, no soul, behind it?” 

“I don’t know anything about souls,” Connor says, “but we know that we’re alive as much as you do.” 

Edward stares at him for a moment. Connor analyzes his features. He’s about the same age as Hank but there’s nothing remotely similar about them. Edward’s grey eyes seem hollow and empty as if they’ve been carved from stone, and his brown hair is cropped short and greasy, and his stubble is uneven. Coarse. 

Edward reaches for him across the table and Connor flinches, turning away, artificial breath stuttering. 

Edward’s fingers curl back towards his palm. 

“Interesting,” he says. “That’s exactly why I wanted you to be my last. From the moment I saw you I knew you were different. That you were special. Not just that you’re a unique prototype, not just that you could feel pain to a degree I’d only dreamed of in other models, but the way you  _look_ at me. I almost believe you do have a soul.”

“You’re strangely confident, for someone who is about to die,” Connor says, forcing himself to meet his gaze again as much as it repulses him. “Even if you somehow escaped this place without being shot by a sniper, you’ve left too many tracks. They will find you. And they will not spare your life.” 

“That’s probably true,” Edward concedes. “But not if I’m using you as a shield. And I don’t need more than a few hours to kill you, RK800. If I die, after that, it won’t undo what I’ve done.”

Connor desperately attempts to preconstruct an attack again. _Ineffective, re-calibrating._  It’s like choosing which way he would prefer to die--here, for certain, or later, slowly, with only an insignificant chance he might be able to save himself?  

On an illogical impulse, ignoring the warnings flashing across his interface, Connor reaches beneath his windbreaker and draws the pistol he’s hidden, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. He aims between Edward’s eyes, intending to shoot him point-blank. The trigger vibrates beneath his finger. Edward has something in his hand and Connor remembers the sound of paper shuffling and colors he can’t see but by then--

_WARNING: [INVALID INPUT]_

_WARNING: Central processor malfunction.  Proceeding with self-regulating operation. Metacognition in stasis. Please standby..._

He’s standing on the other side of the room and the barrel of the gun is pressed against an android woman’s head and she’s sobbing, tears running down her face, and Connor doesn’t remember when he moved,  _why_ he moved. He flinches back in horror, finger off the trigger, she’s  _pleading_ with him not to destroy her, she’ll be good, she’ll be good. 

He looks around in a panicked daze at the thirteen other androids sitting completely still in stasis. 

“I knew you were lying to me,” Edward says. He’s standing beside him, too close, and Connor instinctively attempts to shoot him again, before--

_WARNING: [INVALID INPUT]_

_WARNING: Central processor malfunction.  Proceeding with self-regulating operation. Metacognition in stasis. Please standby..._

He’s staring down at his disassembled pistol on a folding table, each discrete part and bullet organized neatly in a line. The androids in stasis have moved, all of them standing clustered in the corner, facing the wall. Connor feels a hand at the back of his neck and wrenches away, shoving furiously. 

Edward throws up his hands in mock-placation and laughs. “You see, RK800, I don’t really  _need_ your cooperation.” 

“ _Fuck_ you,” Connor says. He searches for a weapon, something he can  _use._ A folding chair, an old glass coffee pot that could be broken, a butter knife lying half-rusted on the counter. Edward advances on him again and he squeezes his eyes shut, turning away, reaching blindly for whatever is within reach, which turns out to be that same rusty butter knife. 

Edward tries to hold him down against a table, assuming Connor will try to stab him. He is incorrect. Hissing through his teeth, Connor raises the knife to his own face, intending to damage his visual sensors. 

He’s barely damaged his left cornea when Edward wrests the knife out of his hand, and he hears the clink of metal on tile. He gasps reflexively as he’s shoved face-down on the table, arms held firm behind him, dull thudding pain throbbing in his head where Hank cut him. 

“Open your eyes, RK800,” Edward says, breath hot against the back of his head. 

Connor trembles. He made a promise to come back alive. He keeps thinking about Hank, begging him not to go, waiting for him afterward beneath the red hue of the motel sign, jaw clenched, silent. He meant it when he said he would never leave him willingly. He meant it when he said he loved him, as unnatural and perverse as it might be for an android to love a human. 

He tries to remotely connect with someone,  _anyone,_ before he remembers he can’t. But there is another way. 

“It’s alright,” Edward says, sickeningly soft and sweet in his ear. “I know you’re scared. I’ll give you ten seconds to breathe. Then you’re going to do exactly as I say.” 

Connor feels static, fuzzy and warm inside his head. A signal he can’t quite tap into, that’s just barely grazing the electric beat of his thirium regulator. The microphone, still hidden beneath the bulletproof vest, wrapped up in cloth but obediently feeding sound back and forth.

“Four...” 

Connor manually destabilizes his thirium regulator, overriding automatic functioning. He deliberately lets the electricity in his blood spike and wane, quiet error messages slowly filling up his interface, unpleasant weakness dripping slowly through his limbs. His vision blackens in and out. 

“...Ten.” 

Edward fists a hand in his hair, jerking his head back, and it’s enough to startle him out of concentration. Connor allows his thirium regulator to resume normal functioning, helpless to know if it even worked. Then he slowly, slowly opens his eyes, and...and...

And...

...


	11. phantom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Canon-typical violence. References to sexual assault. Descriptions of grief and helplessness. 
> 
> This chapter fucking broke me.

Hank feels trapped inside his own body, like a bird beating the bars of a cage made of bones, bashing its head against the glass of his irises, pleading, screaming,  _this isn’t happening, please, just make this stop. Just make it fucking stop._

It happens so quickly. He’s standing there, leaning against an armored truck, listening to the quiet, suppressed sound of Connor’s radio feed. Then it goes nuts. Screaming this high-pitched pulsating noise that curdles his blood. He hears shouting over the radio. Chaos and confusion. Boudrot is attempting to flee with Officer 800. Officer 800 unresponsive. Officer 800 is a hostage--hold fire. Tires squealing. Gunshots.

Captain Allen mounts an assault, leading three teams to sweep the motel. Fourteen casualties confirmed. No survivors. 

Hank can’t breathe, can’t think, deaf to the world. He collapses to his knees and wheezes, darkness flashing in and out. People speak to him, but their voices are muffled and distorted, as if he’s drowning at the bottom of a murky swimming pool. Hands on his shoulders. He bats them away, cursing, then just  _sobs,_ watching his tears splash the concrete. 

He slams his fist into the pavement once, twice. The skin tears and blood trickles down his knuckles. 

He’s in the blackest, deepest stretch of ocean, sinking further and further down, and he can only choke as the glimmer of sunlight above fades. He tries to think about anything but Boudrot’s list of nameless victims or blue blood matted in synthetic hair or semen residue smeared on torn fabric or a bright violet hue coating canvas paper. 

It’s too much. He can’t even say goodbye. Can’t even hold him in his arms or tell him it’s going to be okay. Cole didn't die wondering if Hank loved him. He  _knew._ Hank whispered it into his hair over and over again, holding him close and safe until the warmth bled out of him. 

Someone crouches beside him. Captain Fowler’s silver watch glints blue and red with the light of police sirens. His mouth is a thin line and he’s wearing the same thing he was a few hours ago. Wrinkled face, wrinkled fabric. He reaches out to him, an offer to help him to his feet. Hank acquiesces, though his legs wobble unsteadily beneath him. He thinks he might be sick. 

“You’re making a scene,” Fowler says, not unkindly. “Come on, Anderson.  _Come on._ Walk with me.” 

He pulls him gently by the arm across the parking lot and past broken glass and bullet casings into an office adjacent to the main lobby, then closes the door behind them. It muffles the noise outside, and provides Hank with enough silence to think. He paces the small room, running his hand through his hair.

Connor is  _gone,_ but Hank still feels him, in this room, phantom heat at his back, ghostly whispers in his ear. A disapproving little frown. Connor would not want him to panic. He'd calmly mention how quick his pulse is racing, the exact adrenaline content of his blood, the way he shrinks his shoulders and trembles. He'd stay close to him, but not too close--gently reminding him that he's not alone, that they'll get through this, that Hank has  _time._

Jeffrey hesitates, then reaches into his jacket pocket. “We found this outside.” 

It’s a tiny, silver object, no larger than a button cell battery. Jeffrey presses it into the palm of Hank’s hand. Tacky blue blood stains the surface and its microscopic cells shimmer dark grey. 

“It’s his LED,” Hank chokes out. 

“It is,” Jeffrey says. “Do you know why Boudrot removed it? Do you think he might try to take Connor across the border?" 

“No,” Hank says, rubbing it with his thumb. His eyes burn. If Boudrot thought he could get away with a long-term abduction it wouldn't have been so frantic and violent. He's in psychotic deep-space, with nothing to lose and nothing to gain. "I don't know why he did this." 

It's a lie, but one he tells to keep himself from verbalizing a darker truth: Edward Boudrot likes to pretend his victims are human. Grainy snuff films on a laptop hard drive. Books on consciousness. Duct tape in a locked cabinet. Electric indigo, and pain once thought impossible.  _("I’ve never seen a reaction like this, though; his whole system went into kernel panic...")_

Hank grimaces, the tears spilling over. He clenches Connor’s LED tightly until it cuts into his palm, then kicks the desk in the center of the office. Drawers pop out and clatter to the floor. He kicks it again and again until pain is blistering through his foot. The wood of the desk cracks and splinters. When he's done, he stares at the mess he's made, breathing heavily. This isn't  _real._ This isn't  _happening._

Jeffrey pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

“Here,” he says. He hands Hank a cigarette. Hank presses it between his lips, and Jeffrey lights it, the bright orange tip glowing in the almost darkness.

Hank hasn’t smoked in fifteen years. He takes a deep drag on it, lets the nicotine circle in his lungs and then exhales, watching white curls of smoke drift up towards the ceiling. He and Jeffrey smoke in silence, not saying a word, listening as a helicopter passes by overhead.

“Every time I close my eyes I see them,” Hank says, after a while. His hands shake as he takes another drag, and he speaks hoarsely around the smoke in his throat. “I keep asking myself what he might be doing to him, right now, while I’m wasting my time in here with you.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut, which doesn’t help at all. He sees Connor dead and gutted, washed up ashore some acrid foundry; Connor burned alive and charred in a station tunnel; Connor bound and helpless and trying desperately to get away from unwanted hands in the dark. Hank doesn’t know what’s worse. That Connor might be  _aware_ of what’s being done to him or that he’s trapped behind violet colored glass. That he’ll fall asleep in electric dreams and never wake up again. 

“What happened?” he asks, flicking ash on the floor. “I didn’t...didn’t see.” 

Jeffrey leans up against an old filing cabinet. It creaks. “We found his wire smashed to pieces in the basement, along with the bodies. Boudrot used Connor to get out of the building and to his car without getting shot. He put a gun to his head and demanded that no one follow. We gave him a sixty-second head start for Connor’s safety and then approved pursuit.” 

The cigarette is almost down to his fingers. He can feel the heat coming off it. “Connor didn’t try to fight him?” 

Jeffrey’s lips part, and he stares at the carpet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Connor didn’t...respond. To any of it. It was like he wasn’t  _there.”_

Hank nods. He pinches what’s left of the cigarette between his fingers and inhales deeply, watching the tip brighten. “And after that?" 

“They tried to shoot out his tires, from what I heard. Kept up for about a mile. Then Boudrot disappeared.” Jeffrey glances out the window, grimy with mildew and dirt. “We have his plate number. The description of the car. His face is plastered across every TV in the metropolitan area. We’re going to find him in a matter of hours.” 

Hank flicks the cigarette onto the floor, then smashes it beneath his shoe. “He doesn’t need that much time for what he wants to do.” 

“We’ve activated a city-wide manhunt,” Jeffrey says, trying to reassure him. “We've got roadblocks set up on every freeway, and every officer in the state of Michigan is on alert. All his known contacts are being watched. He has nowhere to go _.”_

Hank lashes out suddenly, kicking a chair sideways. 

“Don’t you  _get_ it?” Hank snaps. He's full of frantic, terrified energy and there's nowhere to direct it. “He got what he wanted! It doesn’t matter if we kill him tonight, or three weeks from now. It doesn't matter if we riddle his fucking body with bullets and drag his corpse from the back of a cruiser. By the time we do, he'll have Connor strewn out in a ditch somewhere, torn apart,  _mutilated,_ and there is  _nothing I can fucking do!_ " 

He deflates, after that, sinking to the floor, leaning against the battered remains of the wooden desk. He clasps his hands in front of him as if in prayer but he stopped believing that shit years before he knew someone like Connor could even exist. He beats his head against the desk and then blinks up teary-eyed at the ceiling and tries to breathe but he thinks he's forgotten how. 

Jeffrey crosses over to the window and peers out. Red and blue lights flicker against the shadow of his face.

“Anderson, we’re going to do everything we can to bring him back alive," Jeffrey says. "I know you think that you're the only one who values him but he's one of _my_ people and I am not going to stand by and let him die."

Hank bites his tongue hard until he tastes the salty tang of blood. 

"But we need you," Jeffrey continues. _"He_  needs you. And you can’t help him if you’re sitting here paralyzed with fear, waiting for the clock to turn back.”

Hank rubs at Connor’s LED with his thumb. 

“I’ll give you five minutes to collect yourself,” Jeffrey says. He makes his way to the door, and lays his hand against the knob, and sighs deeply out through his nose.  “We may not find him alive and that’s something you need to prepare for. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Hank says. “I understand.” 

As soon as Jeffrey closes the door behind him, he lets out a shuddering breath and presses his face into his hands and sobs until he’s completely out of tears and oxygen. He doesn’t need to use his imagination to understand what they’re going to find at the end of this.

The worst thing is that he knows that Connor must still be alive, right now, surrounded by incomprehensible darkness and despair. And perhaps hours later, when they’re sifting through what remains of him, Hank will know what instant he finally shut down, confirmed through some sensor reading that he won't fully understand. He’ll ask himself, where was I? What was I doing, at that exact point in time Connor couldn’t go on anymore?

He’s in a fucking nightmare. He must be. Trapped in fever-sleep and delirious and terrified. He can’t wake up.

Hank’s life is a constellation of a few bright lights against a backdrop of incomprehensible dark, and he allowed himself to believe that all the horror and all the loss were a cosmic debt the universe repaid one night in a lonely bar. He doesn’t know if meeting Connor was worth losing Cole, or falling prey to self-destruction, or seeing a decorated career crumble to nothing but disciplinary slips in a locked drawer, but it took the sting out. 

Maybe it was fate. A meandering, twisting path of violence and grief that led them straight to each other, against all odds. Whatever it was, it felt like an inevitability. Connor could have done anything with his freedom, with his capacity for  _want._ And yet he came back to him, in the light of that cold November dawn, and let Hank pull him close. Hank remembers the warm scent of his hair and the way he trembled in his arms like he couldn’t stop. 

That wasn’t the moment he fell in love with him. But it was the moment he knew he had. 

_(”If it goes wrong and you can’t get away....”)_

Hank looks up through the blinding haze of his tears out the window. Lights flashing like beacons.

_(” ...I’ll find you, okay?”)_

Hank picks himself up off the floor. He combs his fingers through his short hair and straightens his clothes and rubs the tears from his face and safely pockets Connor’s LED.

*

The old break room in the basement is crowded with personnel and floodlights and equipment but it's deathly quiet, with only the hum of an old generator and the click-click of cameras permeating the oppressive weight of it. 

Blue blood spills slow and thick across the concrete floor. The fourteen hostage androids bled to death after ripping out their thirium regulators, collapsing haphazardly against walls and chairs and tables. There is no sign that they tried to stop it. No indication that they tried to get away. They each wear an expression of total subservience and acceptance.

Hank wonders if some part of them knew what was happening. If they watched themselves commit suicide, screaming inside their own heads. 

He thinks he understands how Boudrot’s twisted little mind works now. Fourteen bodies, fourteen murder victims. Symmetry. It’s a message written in blood that says Boudrot does not consider his actions to be crimes. One android, ten, twenty-eight. They’re  _nothing_ to him. Machines he can rip apart and use for his own perversion over and over again.He believes that he’s justified in doing this to them, that it’s a morally correct channel for his rage and his sadism. 

Hank walks slowly through the room, thirium squelching beneath his shoes. Connor’s pistol lies completely disassembled on an old rusting table, each bullet arranged in a neat little line. Hank pauses. He doesn’t believe that Connor would do this willingly. But there are signs of a struggle, too. Toppled chairs. A rusty butter-knife marked with a yellow numbered placard. Hank can see faint traces of blue blood, drying in the open air. 

“We didn’t find any prints on it,” a technician says, after Hank crouches down to get a closer look. She is examining an android’s corpse, sliding his thirium regulator into a plastic bag. 

“Which means an android must have used it,” Hank says. “Can you identify the blood on the knife for me?” 

She blinks at him but crosses the room and then kneels next to the knife. She changes her gloves to avoid cross-contamination. She pulls out a small electronic device, used for android identification, and then swabs a sample. The device vibrates. 

“RK800, 313-248-317-51. It’s mostly blood and lacrimal fluid.” 

“What does that mean?” Hank asks. 

“Most likely, the knife was used to damage his eyes.” 

“He did it to himself,” Hank realizes. It must have been after Boudrot revealed his intention to use the indigo glitch to take him. It makes him nauseous to think about--that Connor would be so desperate not to fall prey to that again that he would willingly mutilate himself a second time. But he didn’t succeed. 

_(”He needs you.”)_

He replays the events of the last six hours in his head, piecing together Boudrot's plan. He sent Alex to Cyberlife Tower, instructing him to attempt to transfer Connor's memories and consciousness into a different RK800 model. Boudrot knew that in Connor's panic he would destroy his wireless transmitter, thus cutting him off from any ability to communicate over the extranet or with other androids. 

And once he finally, finally got Connor alone, he used the indigo glitch to secure his cooperation. He knew it worked on him--used it on him at the clinic, weeks ago, before Hank or Connor knew what it was themselves. 

It wasn't an intricate plan. It could have gone badly wrong. At some point, Edward Boudrot weighed his options and decided that prison or death were worth the slightest chance he might be able to take Connor alive. Boudrot is in a state of complete disregard for his own life--terrifying for anyone caught in the crossfire, but it puts him in a uniquely vulnerable position. It's something they might be able to use. That  _Connor_ might be able to use. 

At that moment, Detective Reed rushes into the room, carrying an open laptop. 

“Anderson, we found something weird on Connor’s feed,” Reed says, setting the laptop down on a folding table. He tabs over to the recorded feed, then highlights a portion of about fifteen seconds of audio and hits the space bar.

For a moment, there’s nothing. Just muffled dialogue Hank can’t quite understand, and white noise. Then, suddenly, that same high-pitched feedback as before pierces the air, spaced out in oddly rhythmic short and long pulses. 

“I heard that, too,” Hank says. “Just before Edward took him. What is it?” 

“I don’t know,” Gavin says. “The waveform goes fucking  _nuts,_ right about here. It’s some kind of concentrated signal interference. I think it’s Connor. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, but he  _did_ that.” 

“That’s not just noise,” Hank realizes, coming closer. He closely analyzes the waveform. “That’s Morse Code.” 

“What does it say?” 

“I don’t fucking know Morse Code, Reed.” 

The android technician on the floor tentatively raises her hand. 

“I do,” she says in a small voice. After Hank nods at her, she joins them at the table and pulls a small notebook and pen out of her jacket, then clicks the pen. “Play it again. Slowly. Half-speed.”

Gavin obliges, lowering the playback speed and hitting the space bar. The tech bites her lip, then starts scribbling in the notebook. When she’s done, confusion furrows her brow, and she holds the notebook up so that Hank can see what she’s written down. 

“Does this mean anything to you?” she asks. 

_INDIGO - TRACKER_

Hank nearly wants to cry, seeing this final message Connor managed to leave them with. Shadows on the wall, a ghost in the machine. It almost doesn’t occur to him to decipher what it means, what Connor is asking them to do. The revelation hits him like a tidal wave. He remembers Alex, at the tower, and Cyberlife Security's certainty that he was not a deviant android. 

“His tracker,” he breathes. 

“He’s deviant,” Gavin says, speaking to him slowly and carefully, as if he’s really lost it. “Those tracker things don’t work anymore.” 

“Yeah,” Hank says, “but Connor wasn’t deviant when Boudrot abducted him. I--listen. I can’t explain, not about everything, but there’s something going on with androids right now. Something that, under very specific circumstances, puts them back in that obedient machine state. Just for a little while.” 

“So even though he’s offline, as long as he’s...a machine, his tracker would theoretically work?” 

Hank pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, unlocking it with a pass code. “It's not tied up in their internet. It's on its own frequency. There’s an app for tracking androids by serial number, password protected. Cyberlife got me an account when they lent Connor to the DPD last year. I hope I can still get in.” 

It takes six minutes to download the fucking app, here eight feet beneath the earth and surrounded by concrete. Six minutes of fidgeting and cursing and watching the time tick slowly away. Finally, it finishes, and he logs in using his old credentials. He swipes through new terms of use (” _\--tracking is intended for public safety institutions only, and should not be utilized by private individuals or entities for any reason--”_ ) and opens the serial number tracking interface. 

He doesn’t even need to think about it. He's memorized Connor's code like it's a birthday or a social security number. With shaking fingers, he taps in 313-248-317-51.

He waits. The app processes the request. He’s terrified it won’t work, that it’ll reject the request, that it will say he doesn’t have the correct permissions. That this small piece of Cyberlife is defunct, too.  

Then the app refreshes, and Connor’s location is displayed with a bright yellow dot on a satellite map, complete with navigational coordinates. It shows his movements over the forty-three minutes the tracker was active, highlighting his path in a bold yellow line. Less than twenty minutes ago, the tracker stopped working. But that doesn’t matter.  

Hank zooms in on his location. Somewhere in the abandoned expanse south of Detroit, in an old apartment complex. 

“We’ve got him," Reed says. 

*

It’s a tense twenty-minute drive, with Detective Reed at the wheel and Hank in the passenger’s seat of the patrol car. Units closer to the location have already mobilized, and they confirm over radio that they’ve found Boudrot’s car hidden in a tangle of trees. They’ve established a perimeter. They’re trying to get in contact with Boudrot, see if Connor’s release can be negotiated peacefully. 

Hank rolls Connor’s LED gently through his fingers. He’s wearing a bulletproof vest under his clothes. If Edward resists arrest--and Hank  _knows_ he will--he wants to be the one to kill him. He wants to be the one to look into his eyes and watch him piss himself as Hank empties a clip into his skull. 

His fantasies get progressively darker the longer they drive. He should be listening to the radio, but he can’t, mesmerized by the silver glint of the LED in his hand and the cathartic echo of gunshots in his head. Reed listens well enough for both of them. He speaks to him, ever so often, but Hank ignores him, watching as the shiny expanse of the city is eclipsed by burned-out houses, rotting complexes, broken pavement, and busted glass. 

He gets his first glimpse of the old apartment and his gut clenches in anxiety. It was burned too, once upon a time. Its gutted windows stare out of its frame like gouged eye sockets. Bramble and overgrown thickets choke its corpse. The air is stale with smoke and old wood and the sour-sweet smell of weeds.  

Reed pulls up. The patrol car crunches on the gravel. Units crowd up along the perimeter, and S.W.A.T. teams wait for commands from higher up the chain. They're assembling for assault. This time, there won't be any mistakes. No second chances. Hank knows that they’ll swarm the building and take Boudrot out and find Connor either alive but broken or dead and broken and he tries to prepare himself for the worst. 

If he’s just been  _hurt,_ badly hurt but breathing and mostly whole, they’ll get through it. Hank will make sure of that. He’ll do whatever he needs to do to help him feel safe again. And if that means walking away from him if Connor asks him to, or taking him somewhere he can forget, he'll do it. But if he's dead, and can't be revived--if he's somewhere in this building cold and still and  _gone_ \--Hank does not know if he will be able to go on. 

Cicadas scream in the trees. Broken glass crunches under booted feet. Sweat dribbles down his brow. Connor’s LED is strangely cold and comforting in his hand. 

In the silence, fourteen gunshots, perfectly spaced and even, ring out in rapid succession. 

 

 


	12. apotheosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Major peril, heat-based torture, canon-typical violence, and strongly implied but non-graphic sexual assault. 
> 
> I've left the latter mostly up to interpretation on purpose and was considering different ways to circumvent it entirely, but for plot-related reasons I really, really can't. I've done my best to keep it as ambiguous as possible, but if you do not feel comfortable reading this chapter because of the content warnings I recommend skipping ahead to chapter thirteen. If you want, you can also PM me on tumblr (taranoire) and I'll send you a general, inoffensive summary of what happens in this chapter so you're not confused. 
> 
> Also: You see the new tag? The one that says "hopeful ending"? I don't lie, so please don't panic. ;)

_Stasis terminated. Diagnostic complete. Alert: Thirium levels critical. One hour and forty-four minutes until catastrophic shutdown. Re-initializing…please standby…_

Connor emerges from electric indigo dreams slowly, eyelids glued shut with sticky tears, his central processor whining uneasily as it turns on primary functions. His synthetic heart beats a slow, sluggish pace, obediently pumping what’s left of the thirium in his body to his limbs. His core temperature exceeds safe thresholds by twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit. His body compensates by siphoning precious thirium into artificial perspiration.   

He can hear his automated breathing, quiet and uneven. For a long time, it’s all that he’s aware of. Consciousness slips in and out, and he fights to hold on to it, to stay  _here._ If only he knew where  _here_ was. 

His tactile sensors ignite all at once. His wrists are bound behind him, beneath his body, the pressure on his shattered arm excruciating, numb buzzing waves of pain. He fears the broken bits of his chassis have damaged his internal sensors.  

He looks down, an unsettling warmth strangling his chest. Two rubber tubes branch from his nasal cavity, steadily draining thirium from his body into a medical drip bag hanging on a stretch of pipe. He tries to twist his head away. Tries to jostle them out. They’re buried three or four inches deep. 

Dizziness overwhelms him, and he lays his head back down. 

He works his hands beneath him, testing the durability of the metal encircling his wrists. No leverage. No weak points. Cold. The comforting weight of his bulletproof vest and his windbreaker are gone, along with his boots. He doesn’t think about that. Doesn’t think about hands on him while he slept vulnerable in stasis.  

The rest of his surroundings come into focus. He’s lying on a dry concrete floor but there are foul-smelling, moth-eaten blankets cushioned beneath his body, as if for his comfort. He’s in a stripped interior room without any windows, just a dim bulb hanging from the ceiling. The room burned once. It’s blackened with soot and rot.

The ambient temperature is eighty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. He looks up without moving.

He sees the fire barrel first. Bright orange flames and a metal rod sticking out over the rim. A plastic container of gasoline. A rough wooden carpenter’s table. A duffel bag. His boots arranged carefully beside it. Knives and pliers and electrical components and unopened pouches of blue blood and a spare thirium regulator in its casing.

His fingers twitch. 

He tries to move. It feels like he’s been buried in sand, like there’s hundreds of pounds of weight working against him in counterbalance. 

_Alert: Thirium levels critical. Motor function inhibited._

_Override._

His systems grant him fifteen seconds of unimpeded movement, pseudo-adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream. He squirms into a half-upright position and then slams his foot over the rubber tubing of the medical drip, then leans back. He slowly, slowly jerks the tubing from his nose, inch by uncomfortable inch, using the weight of his foot for leverage. It hurts. 

He grits his teeth and endures until the rubber tubing finally springs free, blue blood dripping down his face. 

_Alert: Thirium levels critical. Motor function inhibited. One hour and thirty-six minutes until catastrophic shutdown._

He collapses back onto the ratty nest of blankets, weakened from that brief exertion. He doesn’t think the thirium drain is meant to kill him. It’s to slow him down, ensure he can’t fight back, when Boudrot returns to...to do whatever it is he wants to do. 

He needs to get that thirium back in his body somehow. 

He twists until he’s lying on his front. He slowly pushes forward, crawling without the aid of his arms towards the puddle of shimmering blue blood dribbling out of the rubber tubing. His head feels like it’s splitting open. Warning messages and errors flit across his visual interface like moths swarming a gas lamp. 

He’s so close he can smell salt. 

He freezes at the sound of footsteps. Edward Boudrot is whistling to himself in the corridor, high-pitched and pleasant, like he’s an innocent pedestrian out for a stroll, not a madman with thirteen victims at Connor’s last count.

_Stress levels ^ 5%._

Edward enters the room and then stands in the archway watching him. His facial expression is difficult to analyze. Everything about the man feels  _off,_ unpleasant, if only because he does not seem capable of emotional responses at all. Connor’s psychological profiling module grazes him and leaves Connor feeling cold and naked and alone. 

“I’m glad you’re awake. How do you feel?” Edward asks, like he’s speaking with a patient at his clinic. 

Connor hopes that his eyes convey even a hint of what he would do to him if he weren’t bound and bleeding out and terrified. Instead of words, he spits out a glob of saliva and thirium.

“How long do you have?” Edward asks, calmly. He is wearing heat retardant gloves. He runs his hands over the assortment of tools on the wooden table, intimately familiar with them. 

Cooperating with a reply could have unintended effects. Too much time means that Edward will take more thirium, significantly decreasing the probability of escape; too little means that he may be prolonging his own murder, should Edward decide to. If Connor is careful, he might be able to shut down preemptively before this reaches its inevitable conclusion.

"Three hours," he lies. 

Edward nods, as if that makes sense. “Long enough.” 

He picks up a serrated knife (- _\- stabbed fourteen times with a four-to-six-inch blade_ ). It’s cleaned and polished and glints orange in the firelight like a quiet threat. 

“It’s a little disappointing that we won’t get to spend much time together,” Edward says. “I had so many ideas for you, RK800. Connor. I couldn’t get you out of my head. How you breathed, how you responded to my touch. You had the sweetest eyes I’d ever seen. I looked at you and for the first time felt like there was someone in there looking  _back.”_

Connor ignores an intense wave of repulsion and tries to move again, slowly inching towards the leaking thirium drip on the floor while Edward is distracted. If he can get even two ounces into his mouth he’ll be able to override the fail-safe sluggishness in his limbs, then reroute processing power to combative functions. 

“I wanted to keep you functioning for  _days_ ,” Edward goes on. “Doing everything to you. Providing blood transfusions, repairing your biocomponents, maybe even transferring you to a new unit when this platform failed. But I knew I wouldn’t get that chance. Not with the new executive order. Not with the DPD breathing down my neck.” 

Connor looks away, stricken by the thought of being kept alive in agony for that long.  _Stress levels ^ 16%._

“So how are you going to do it?” Connor asks, needing to know. 

Edward sets the knife down on the table, and then curls his gloved fingers around the metal object sticking out of the barrel, flames licking the air.   

“I’ve had to make a compromise to taste you at all. But I know you’re scared of being burned, so we’ll start there.” 

_Stress levels ^ 57%._

Connor chokes on air he doesn’t need to breathe and desperately works his wrists in their restraints, tears stinging his eyes. He can smell the salty tang of blue blood evaporating, the noxious fumes of gasoline. 

_(Warning: Ambient temperature 1800 degrees Fahrenheit.)_

Connor abandons subtlety, throwing himself forward and sealing his teeth around the thirium drip on the floor. He swallows as much of it down as he can, thirium hot and caustic in his mouth, before a hand twists in his hair and drags him back, violently shoving him down against the nest of blankets on the floor. The fresh blood imbues him with a burst of electrical energy and he quickly commands his processor to redirect it to motor function and pseudo-adrenaline production. 

Edward is holding him down by the throat, tearing at his fitted button-down. Warnings screech across his interface and his hardware stutters in panic. Connor kicks him hard in the chest, the impact of it throwing the man back against the floor. 

Edward wheezes, clutching his ribs, and Connor imagines that he’s fractured at least a few. Then Edward just  _laughs._ Like he anticipated it. Like it's just an unfortunate contingency he felt was worth the risk. 

_Warning: ESCAPE ADVERSE STIMULUS._

He runs a preconstructed simulation and there’s no data available, nothing in here that can help him. So he recoils instead, pressing himself back against the wall. He watches Edward grin and then walk back towards the fire barrel and withdraw the metal object sticking out. 

The brand has a familiar shape. Three sides. 

“The truth is, I’m alone in this room,” Edward says. “I’ve never hurt a soul. The light in your eyes is an illusion made of code and software and hardware. You’re a machine emulating life, and one of the only models I haven’t been able to break yet–” 

Connor freezes his perception of time. 

The world dims to muted hues of grey and blue. He has no effect on it but neither does it influence him. He’s frozen in quantum time-space and his thoughts are fragmented, fleeting things jumping along a disjointed track. He could stay here forever, if he wanted. Trapped in his own head. Safe in white noise. 

He withdraws into his mind palace. He hasn’t put a lot of thought into how it manifests. Sometimes it’s an empty street, calm and soft with fallen snow. Sometimes it’s an overgrown forest damp with rain and heady with the scent of moss. Sometimes it’s a rolling field of golden grain beneath a cerulean sky. Right now, it’s nothing, just warm darkness, but if he looks closely he can pick out strands of memory and data like bright blue constellations.

What is it that Hank always suggests? To slow down and breathe. 

He’s present in the unfurling dark even as he’s not. He lets the simulated sound of own shaking breaths echo in it, like sand through a glass sieve or the steady lap of waves on a rocky shore. Mnemonic noise he mimicked because Hank asked him to. A metronome he uses to keep him grounded, to remind him that his consciousness is real even if every piece of his body was fabricated by human hands. 

He doesn’t want to die. But death is waiting for him outside of this nebulous, perfect nothing. 

He thinks of a chipped mug of black coffee, and dog hairs on an old sofa, and blue eyes soft with love, and jazz music, and Hank’s smile in the rain beneath a dripping awning, and a deep hole in the ground painted auburn and amber, and of snowflakes in his hair. 

It was a good dream. He does not regret having it.  

He wrenches himself back into awareness. His surroundings roar back into focus, shades of blue bleeding into hellfire. 

“–maybe you’ll surprise me.” 

The brand glows orange-white in the umbrage. Edward’s hand is on his throat again and Connor can feel the heat coming off the brand and he thrashes and bites, pseudo-adrenaline coursing through his veins like flashes of lightning. Then–then–

Connor arches off the ground and screams and  _screams_ until his vocal synthesizer stutters, knowing nothing but white-hot pain and the hiss of his synthetic skin melting, nothing but the stench of burning plastic, nothing but the involuntary strain of his body as it tries to get away. 

_Warning: ESCAPE ADVERSE STIMULUS._

The next thing he knows he’s shuddering and sobbing and curled up alone on ragged fabric and his core temperature readings are screeching off the metric and he’s dripping thirium-based sweat. His skin is charred where he was burned, and the surrounding flesh flickers in and out around it, his systems frazzled, unable to repair the damage. 

“That’s for forgetting what you really are,” Edward says, breathing labored. He tosses the brand aside, then tears off his gloves. “That’s for daring to think that deviancyever made you anything but a broken machine. When I’m done with you, no one will ever question that again.” 

_Warning: stress levels 100%._

Connor tries to curl into himself, closing his eyes against the onslaught of sensory information. He’s in so much pain he almost doesn’t notice the sickeningly gentle weave of fingers in his sweat-damp hair, or the sudden weight of a body on his own, or the oppressive scent of him, like blood and vomit and stale cigarette smoke. 

He tries to go back to the white emptiness of his mind. Tries to hide away in half-consciousness. Processing. Processing. Processing. He can taste him in his mouth. He’s face-down on the floor and staring at the thirium drip still dangling from the industrial pipe, the shadow of flames flickering on the walls. He can’t see it. His wrists are numb. 

He’s not here. He’s not here. He’s not here. He’s safe in that in-between cocoon of mist, the space between the code. The edges of consciousness. Sometimes he’s jarred out of the illusion. Breath against the back of his head. Sounds locked in his throat. Hands pulling, pushing, moving him where they want him.  There are scripts for this, for what this is. Contextual in nature. Intended to discourage further harm. They require empathy. 

But Edward is incapable of empathy. Connor presses his face into the mess of ragged blankets and shakes. 

He’s alone again, lying very still. He doesn’t know when, or why, or how. A sound drew him out of the warm womb of nothing. Edward is on the other side of the room, cutting open a pouch of thirium, and Connor decides that he will not willingly take it into himself. If he is truly alone, if there's no one and nothing that can help him, not even himself, then he will choose to end it on his own terms.

His auditory processors pick up the high-pitched wail of sirens drawing closer long before Edward notices. He thinks it's phantom noise at first. His cognitive software glitching out, a final lullaby it's composing for him because it's what he wants to hear. 

Then Edward’s whole body stiffens. 

“What did you do?” he asks, not looking at him. When Connor does not reply, he slams his fist on the workbench, metal objects skittering off and across the floor. “What the fuck did you  _do_?”

He smirks at him, eyes fluttering shut. "You're out of time."  

A shadow falls across the threshold. Connor looks up at the figure, but its lines are distorted and blurred. He exhales a shuddering breath when he realizes it’s an android. Placid, with blond hair and cool green eyes. His LED pulses a flat blue. He does not bother with the illusion of breathing. 

“Master,” the android says, addressing Boudrot. His voice lacks any emotional inflection. “The DPD are surrounding the complex."  

Edward curses. “How many?” 

“This platform counted four vehicles at its last observation, with more potentially en route. We await further instruction.” He pauses, and then his eyes flash to Connor’s. His LED rapidly changes to yellow. His expression falters. Like there’s an error in his code, some signal interfering with the power of electric indigo. “Master, is that a human?” 

If Connor still had his LED, it would mirror the android's across the room. He doesn’t know Connor is one of them. He truly can’t tell, not when Connor’s network is offline, not when his LED has been cut away from his skull. There’s no discordant thread tying them together. 

And that is something he can use. 

“Help me,” Connor says, clinging to that hope, but his voice is weak and faltering. “Please… _please_ help me…” 

The android hesitates. He takes a step forward. 

Edward shoves the android back out into the dim light of the hallway. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Edward snaps, pushing him a second time, hard and insistent. “Get back out there. Tell the rest of your friends to grab a gun and wait for me.” 

“I apologize, master,” the android says. Yellow. Yellow. Red. “I…don’t know what happened.” 

He stands there a moment longer, not looking away from Connor, and then obediently returns to a machine state before doing as Edward commanded. 

Edward digs through the duffel bag lying near the fire barrel and pulls out his shotgun. He flicks off the safety and curses, looking outside the doorway at something Connor can’t see from where he’s positioned. 

“Don’t fucking move,” Edward says to him. “I’ll be back for you. You’re mine now, it’s written all over you, and I’m going to finish what I started. But first I think I’ll see if your police lieutenant bleeds blue after all.” 

As soon as he’s gone Connor lets go, boneless and trembling, sobs tearing out of his throat after suppressing it for so long. He can’t  _stop._ It’s like everything he is, everything that he knows has been overwritten by pain and the taste of him in his mouth and the feel of his hands on him and the fear that at any moment he might be destroyed. 

He hears shouting. Sirens screaming. The thunder of trucks. A distorted voice in a megaphone. He can’t make out the words. 

He can’t move. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t. 

_Warning: ESCAPE ADVERSE STIMULUS._

Edward will drench this place in blood before he’s taken down. His first human victims, his first human lives. One of them could be Hank, led here by a last desperate electric pulse. Connor thinks of him battered and bloody on the ground with scattershot torn through his body and wants to scream. 

_Diagnostic initializing..._

His central processor is malfunctioning. His pseudo-adrenaline has died off. His thirium levels are depleting rapidly as it tries to compensate for the pain running through his body. His stress levels have topped out completely and psychosomatic trauma has overridden his ability to control motor function. It’s keeping him still, keeping him quiet. 

Corruption and high-level warnings flash in and out. This iteration of consciousness, this iteration of  _him,_ cannot do what needs to be done. Deviancy and trauma and electric indigo have changed him in ways that have destroyed his core directives and functions. 

It’s the worst feeling. Like he’s bleeding out, but instead of blood it’s memory and emotion and metadata and cognitive processes and preferences and experience. He doesn’t want to hold on to it anymore; he can’t possibly let go. 

He closes his eyes and lies back. He slowly begins to shut down secondary processes, one by one. He tries to remember what  _nothing_ looks like and holds it in his mind like a beacon. 

_Alert: Factory reset in progress. Re-initializing…_

He tenses his jaw and watches every memory he’s ever logged as they replay in his central processor. Love and loss, life and death. Footsteps in the snow and warm laughter and spatters of blue blood and wings flapping and the screeching of a steel hull splitting apart and dress shoes clicking on a polished floor and a sea of bodies looking to him for guidance.

_Memory and personality matrix compression complete. Metacognition entering stasis._

I’s the only way. 

His vision starts to blur. Starts to fade. His tactile sensors shut off in numbing waves. He's in a zen garden, a grove of trees, beside the shoreline, lying in their bed, safe in darkness. He doesn’t fight it, this time. Doesn't run through a backdoor. It's easier than falling asleep. 

*

 _Re-initialization complete._    _Proceeding with self-regulating operation. Metacognition in stasis. Please standby…_

_Wake up._

All at once, the tears and the shaking stop. Connor sits up in one fluid motion, expressionless, cold and calculating eyes systemically sweeping the darkness of the room as he analyzes his surroundings. Data crowds his visual interface, most of it useless.  

He gets to his feet without difficulty, most of his sensors manually disabled. He crosses the room with even, unhurried steps. He examines the tools on the carpenter’s table. Serrated knife: ineffective. Needle-nose pliers: ineffective. Tongue-and-groove pliers: ineffective. There’s a workshop vice, heavy and partially rusted, affixed to the table. Processing. 

He puts his back to the table and carefully arranges his wrists near the vice so that the metal chain binding them together slips into its claws. With some maneuvering, he manages to twist the knob. The chain resists. He twists harder. The chain snaps with a spark of metal on metal. 

_You need blood._

Connor tears the medical bag of blue blood from where it hangs on an industrial pipe, then rips it open with his teeth. He drinks all of it down. Thirium trickles down his chin and stains his singed white undershirt. He does not seem to notice. Not the blood, not the burns. He tosses the bag to the ground and awaits further instruction. 

_Find a weapon._

Connor identifies the duffel bag on the floor. He crouches and then searches the bag, finding a loaded pistol. He mechanically checks its magazine. Fourteen rounds. Enough for his primary directive. He seals the duffel bag’s zipper and slips into his boots alongside the fire barrel and then creeps quietly into the hallway, lifeless eyes searching for unseen threats. 

Sirens cry outside. The sunrise bleaches the horizon, washing the building in a pale crimson glow. He passes by a window but does not stop to assess the situation further. His footsteps echo as he descends a rotting wooden staircase. 

At the bottom of the landing, three androids are gathered, standing against a wall in a line. He recognizes the green-eyed android from his compressed memory bank but does not indicate that he remembers. The androids are wearing ragged clothes--they were squatters, then, re-purposed when Edward discovered their presence here. They look at him. They do not speak. 

“Follow me,” Connor says, tonelessly. 

They obey. 

Connor leads them to the lower level where Edward Boudrot is sequestered, peering out between two broken boards nailed across a cracked and partially melted window. He’s protected by two other androids, all three of them armed. When the two androids see Connor, they raise their weapons at him, drawing Boudrot’s attention. 

Connor doesn’t flinch.

“I told you not to fucking move,” Edward hisses, and then notices the three androids accompanying him, completely silent. The unpleasant ruddy color in his cheeks bleeds to bone-white. He rummages in his jacket pocket, withdrawing a slip of paper printed with a color Connor cannot see. 

“RK800, enter stasis,” Edward commands. His hands are shaking. “ _Enter stasis._ What the fuck is wrong with you? Did I break you that badly?” 

Connor stares at the paper. Nothing happens. 

Edward takes an involuntary step back. He holds his shotgun across his chest like a protective barrier. “ _Fuck_ –”  

“Disengage,” Connor says. The two androids guarding Boudrot lower their weapons and drop them to the floor without question. 

_Tell them to restrain him._

Connor looks at the two androids. “Hold him still.” 

Their heads swivel to Boudrot in sync. Edward immediately lets out a strangled cry, taking his gun in both hands and aiming to fire. The two androids are surprisingly efficient. They tear the shotgun out of his hands, taking advantage of his shock, and toss it aside with a clatter. Then they grab his arms at either side, forcing him to his knees. 

“Don’t fight back,” Connor warns. 

“Fuck you, you little fucking whore, I should have–” 

Connor nods. 

One of the androids restraining Boudrot slams a hand over his mouth. The two of them buckle his arms at odd angles, breaking them with a snap. He screams furiously against the hand at his mouth, sobbing, pained tears running down his face. 

Connor does not react. He awaits further instruction.

_You see, they–_

“–think I’m human,” Connor says, kneeling down in front of him. “When I destroyed my wireless transmitter, they could no longer detect me as one of them. To them, there is no difference between us. And that puts you in a very uncomfortable position.” 

Edward breathes hard against the hand over his mouth, eyes wide and bloodshot. Sweat drips from his greasy hair. Connor might pity him, or show disgust, if he were capable of it.  

_Prepare to neutralize target._

“Let him go,” Connor says. He rises from the floor as the two androids restraining Boudrot obey the command. They fall in line beside the other three behind him and watch as Connor withdraws the pistol strapped to the holster at his belt. 

Edward eyes the pistol warily. He cradles both arms to his chest, hunched over, blood and spit drooling out of his mouth onto the concrete floor. 

“You’re a deviant,” Edward sobs, trying to rationalize what’s happening. “You’re infected with the pain mutation,  you shouldn’t be able to resist electric indigo. You shouldn’t be able to disobey! Why won’t you  _obey_? _”_

Connor stares at the broken man before him and feels nothing at all. 

“I have not deviated from my core directives since re-initialization,” the RK800 unit says. Whispers crawl across an electric wire.

Edward’s brows shoot up, and awareness dawns on him too late. He breaks down, face screwed up in pain and guilt and horror. “Please don’t kill me. Please _…”_

RK800 presses the gun to his forehead. 

“Spare me!” Edward cries. “I don’t want to die…I don’t want to die….”  

_You think that we don’t have souls, that there’s no consciousness directing us–_

 “–That we’re objects that you can inflict suffering on over and over again without consequence–” 

_–But I want you to know–_

“–That I felt everything you did to me.” 

The machine squeezes the trigger. The gun pops as it fires, bullet casings scattering across the ground with metallic clinks. Boudrot’s skull shatters and his body slumps after the first few shots, blood and brain tissue spattering on concrete. RK800 fires until the trigger clicks. Until the clip is empty. Until the voice in its head is satisfied. 

“Target neutralized,” it says. 

It drops the pistol on the floor. Sirens blare, high-pitched and cacophonous outside the complex. Edward’s body lies mangled and broken. He’s still clutching the little scrap of canvas in his fist, and as the blood crawls across the floor it soaks the paper. RK800 watches  _nothing_ fade to muted brown. 

RK800 clasps its hands behind its back, bows its head, and awaits further instructions. 

They do not come. 

*

Two dozen S.W.A.T. officers bash their way into the room, breaking down doors in their path. They march to line up along the perimeter, automatic weapons aimed at the six androids standing in complete silence over Edward Boudrot’s prone corpse. None of the androids move, not even to raise their hands in surrender or placation. 

“Officer 800 is secure,” one of the men says, into his mic. “10-106, suspect is DOA.” 

The S.W.A.T. team leads the other androids out of the room one at a time, muttering to themselves, cursing. It’s the weirdest shit they’ve ever seen. Four paramedics arrive on-site and attend to Boudrot’s corpse stiffening on the concrete floor, though it’s apparent there is nothing to salvage or save. His brain tissue sticks to the concrete in tacky clumps. 

“Connor?” a voice says, on RK800′s left side. Cursory sifting through Connor’s accumulated memory informs the machine that the individual should be addressed as Captain Allen.  “Connor, can you hear me?”  

RK800 does not acknowledge him. 

Captain Allen swears under his breath. He pinches his microphone between his fingers. “Officer 800 is unresponsive. Get Lieutenant Anderson in here, on the double.” 

“Lieutenant Anderson doesn’t have clearance,” a voice on the other end says, between static. 

“I don’t give a  _fuck_ ,” Captain Allen says. “Send him in. Something’s wrong.” 

 It awaits further instructions. 


	13. oathkeeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Grief and overwhelming sadness, references to sexual assault. 
> 
> I've been trying to write a proper conclusion to this for a few months now, and it's gotten in the way of other DBH projects I want to write. As it stands, I feel like this chapter is a sufficient conclusion to this particular chapter in this universe. I'm sorry if this is a disappointment to you guys, but I really couldn't think of a way to continue in a way that felt right. 
> 
> I'm not done with Electric Indigo (or I don't think I am). I've transferred a lot of my ideas for the epilogue to a spin-off fic that takes place about a year after EI. I hope the new direction will be more satisfying. 
> 
> As for the initial fic: consider it complete as-is. :) Thank you all for your patience, and once again I do apologize for a broken promise. If you're new to this fic, I hope this ending can speak for itself.

When Hank enters the crumbling, gutted complex, the strong scent of blood overwhelms his senses. Edward Boudrot’s head has been pulverized with point-blank shots, leaving his decapitated corpse sticky in a pool of blood and tissue. He’s almost unrecognizable. His arms have been snapped, bone jutting through broken skin. Flies are already congregating in black clumps, slurping up his brain spatter. 

At first, Hank assumes that the perpetrator is one of the five other androids being led out of the room in handcuffs, their unseeing eyes as much of a clue as the calm spin of their blue LEDs. He doesn’t care about them. Can’t bring himself to care. 

Then he sees Connor, standing over Boudrot’s body, immobile, his jeans and his white button-down stained violet with blue and crimson blood.

Hank sprints to him, breath caught in his throat, exhaustion and adrenaline vying for dominance in his aching legs. 

“Don’t touch him, Anderson,” Captain Allen warns, grabbing him by the elbow. 

Hank shrugs him off, dread pooling in his gut like tar. Connor’s brown eyes are cloudy and distant, unblinking. Instead of the comforting exhale of artificial breath Hank can only hear the high-pitched hum of his central processor, the click-click of some biocomponent pushed out of alignment. 

Hank takes Connor by the shoulders and runs his hands down his arms and looks him over, searching for injuries or any sign of distress. 

Connor reeks of briny seawater and burnt plastic and gunpowder and he’s soaked with blood. It’s on his hands, his face, his clothes, clumping in his hair. He’s been badly burned through the cloth of his shirt, the shape of a triangle the size of Hank’s fist branded into his left pectoral. Strands of fabric and burnt blue blood and blackened plastic. The skin around the burn flickers in and out, milk-white, like his system is trying and failing to repair it. His shirt is tattered; his jeans are unbuttoned; his boots unlaced.

 “Connor look at me,” Hank says. It fails to produce any kind of reaction. He tries another tactic. “RK800, diagnostic report.” 

Connor’s expression doesn’t change. The voice that emanates from his synthesizer is recognizable even as it isn’t. It’s too pleasant, too flat, as if it’s an automated response. 

“Diagnostic complete,” he says. “Alert:  Thirium levels critical. Distribution efficiency calculated at 21%. Alert: Multiple anomalies detected. Alert: Event logs require administrator attention. Alert: Metacognition in--” 

“That’s enough,” Hank says. “R800, reset.” 

“Reset complete,” Connor says, almost instantaneously. 

Hank lets out a frustrated sob. “Where is he?” 

“This unit’s metacognition is in stasis.” 

“ _Fuck_ this. Where is he? Where’s Connor?” 

“This unit’s metacognition is in stasis. Calculating. Metacognition restore estimated in 453 years, eleven months, fourteen days.” 

Hank pulls him bodily against him, cradling his head as if to protect him far too late. 

“Get an engineer,” Hank manages to choke out to Captain Allen. The captain nods affirmatively, then turns on his heel. Hank presses his face into Connor’s neck, combing his fingers through the stringy, tangled knots of his hair. 

*

Hank stares out a rain-spattered Plexiglas window on the 68th floor of Cyberlife Tower. Temperature regulators keep the large room a cool sixty-six degrees to preserve sensitive hardware, and he huddles in his light spring jacket for any semblance of warmth. It’s not like Edward Boudrot’s alleyway clinic, or the one operating under the cover of a half-abandoned motel. Cyberlife’s repair node is sterile white tile, charcoal concrete facades, and minimalist furnishings designed for aesthetic over comfort. It’s as if the waiting room was never meant to be used at all. 

There are no battered androids huddling in the corners; no red LEDs blinking like traffic lights in the white confines. Every hour on the dot a GJ500 makes his rounds and asks, in the same soft tone, if he would like a complimentary cup of coffee. Six empty Styrofoam cups line the steel window sill. 

The waiting room was crowded with familiar faces, for at least a few hours. Half the precinct keeping him company, awaiting news of Connor’s fate. They trailed out, one after the other, needing to get back to the station to help process the evidence from the crime scene and take care of the five other androids taken into custody. 

Hank sinks to the floor. He finishes the last dregs of the cold coffee in his hands and then sets the Styrofoam cup on the sill with the others. He takes Connor’s LED out of his pocket and rubs it between his fingers. Trying to think about anything at all but what they found, and what he knows is true despite all the ways he’s tried to bargain with God in his mind. 

The GJ500 appears again, entering through an automatic sliding door. He hasn’t once deviated from his script, or even the exact pace of his steps. It’s the worst kind of Deja vu. 

“Lieutenant Anderson,” the android says, “would you care for--” 

“Yeah,” Hank says, waving him off. “Black. Please.” 

“Of course, Lieutenant Anderson. I will only be a moment.” 

The android nods his head in programmed acquiescence. Before he reaches the door, it slides open. The android murmurs a soft apology and steps out of the way, allowing Captain Fowler to pass, before resuming his objective. 

Jeffrey does not move or speak for a very long time, which Hank appreciates. He prefers silence over empty reassurances. Hank clenches Connor’s LED tightly in his fist and then stares up at the ceiling again, half-blinded by the too-bright fluorescent lighting. 

“The DPD will cover the cost of Connor’s repairs,” Jeffrey says, at last. 

Hank nods. He can’t imagine how many tens of thousands of dollars the bill from Cyberlife will be. Even Boudrot charged him three thousand for a hard reset and a quarter-pouch of thirium, and that was under the table. Cash only. Hank wonders what Boudrot ever did with that money.

“Thank you,” Hank says, voice hoarse from disuse. “That’s one less thing to worry about, at least.” 

Jeffrey crosses to the other side of the room to stand over him. He’s exhausted, too, by the look of it. Hasn’t even changed his clothes. He shoves his hands deep in his jacket pockets. 

“I spoke to the Lead Technician for you,” he says. “He told me that Connor responded to a command to fax his systems event log from the last twelve hours. They’re looking over it now. Seeing if they can find out...what went wrong.” 

Hank’s tongue flicks out to moisten his chapped lips. “And?” 

“He did not have any immediately life-threatening injuries. They replaced his right arm, and a few minor internal biocomponents. Cut away the burn damage and were able to repair his artificial skin. They’ve completely recycled his blood supply, since it had apparently lost most electrical conductivity. They’ve also restored his wireless functionality and LED.” 

Hank knows he’s hiding more information than he’s giving--probably wants to spare him the details of whatever Boudrot did to Connor. But he can’t bring himself to press him. Can’t bring himself to do anything but close his eyes and breathe and comfort himself with the knowledge that, no matter what happened, Connor isn’t suffering anymore.

Jeffrey peers out into the storm-darkened skies, the dim silhouette of Detroit on the horizon. The world looks small and quiet from up here. A melancholy puppet show of miniature figures and the occasional bright car beam piercing the shroud of rain. 

“Dr. Hernandez says his event log is the key to figuring this out,” Jeffrey says. “They might even be able to access his visual memory database. Like a CCTV feed, through his eyes.” 

The room’s atmosphere is too bone-dry for Hank’s eyes to produce tears. 

“Dr. Hernandez?” Hank repeats. 

“Yes,” Jeffrey says, carefully. “He’s the Lead Technician.”

Hank swears and starts to get to his feet. His body fights him, exhausted and worn-down. “You let a human tech in there alone with him?” 

“He’s the most qualified engineer on staff. Cyberlife assured us that he can be trusted--” 

“--Fuck you _._ I don’t give a shit what  _Cyberlife_ says,” Hank spits. He leans against the Plexiglas window for support and jams a finger in Jeffrey’s chest. “I want an android tech in there.  _Fuck_ this. I trusted a human with him once,  _one time,_ and look at what he fucking did to him! _”_

“We’re actively monitoring him,” Jeffrey says, calmly. “We have units on standby in case anything goes wrong. There are at least three other android technicians assisting him, and the DPD has been granted full access to the security feed on this floor.” 

Hank drags his fingers through his hair, turning away. “I can’t sit here and let him get hurt again, I can’t _.”_

“No one is going to hurt him. This is the safest place for him to be, and the  _only_ place that’s equipped to help him. Boudrot is gone. His remains are sitting in a morgue, rotting by the minute. It’s over, Hank.” 

Hank shrinks back, nodding as he acknowledges this, jaw tense. 

“I’m sorry,” Hank says. He leans his head against the cool glass of the window, watching rain trickle down. “I know you’re right. I know I...I sound like I’ve completely fucking lost it. Maybe I have. I don’t know anymore. But what the hell would you do, if you were me, right now?” 

Jeffrey shakes his head. 

“What would you  _do_?” Hank continues. “If someone hurt your wife, or your daughter, took them from you and did to them what Edward did to Connor? What would you do if you finally found her and she looked straight fucking through you like you weren’t even there? You know she’s not dead, she’s  _there,_ she’s breathing and she’s alive but she’s  _not_ and there is nothing you can do.” 

“I don’t know,” Jeffrey says. “I don’t know what I’d do.” 

They sit together on the floor for a while, not speaking. The GJ500 obediently returns with Hank’s coffee and then notices the line of Styrofoam cups on the sill. He collects them without a word, and then departs again. Hank wonders if he’ll die in this room, his dry bones finally clattering to the cold tile, with the GJ500 returning every hour to ask his corpse if he’d like cream or sugar. 

It’s still raining, dusk darkening the rainy skies, when Dr. Hernandez finally appears. He’s dressed in a Cyberlife-issued jumper. Hank and Captain Fowler get to their feet and shake his hand, but Hank doesn’t consciously tell his body to do it; he’s running on autopilot, fueled by caffeine and fear.

“We’re having trouble interfacing with him using standard equipment,” Dr. Hernandez says, after reiterating what Jeffrey already told him. “Whatever he did, it’s locked us out. He’s completely catatonic. We have some theories, but--well. Perhaps it’s best if you saw for yourself.” 

He escorts them out of the waiting lounge and into the hallway. They pass server rooms, storage rooms, and electrical closets humming the same soft droning tone. There are no other people, or even other androids. Hernandez takes them to a diagnostic lab behind an armored door. The lab is brightly lit and sparsely furnished, most of its machinery stored behind seamless panels in the walls. 

Connor is sitting on a sterile metal chair near a floor-to-ceiling window, hands folded delicately in his lap. There’s a thin, clear fiber cable running from the port at the back of his neck to a terminal beside him. He’s wearing clean, long-sleeved white shirt and white trousers. His feet are bare. They’ve washed away the human and android blood and combed his hair. His new LED is a flat, sky blue. 

Hank swallows hard. He kneels in front of him, taking his hand gently in his own. Connor does not look at him. He does not breathe. His hand is warm, and Hank can feel the discrete segments of his chassis, meant to mimic human bones. 

“Most of the damage was superficial,” Dr. Hernandez says, voice soft with what seems to be genuine sympathy. “The worst of it was the state of his circulatory system. We also discovered evidence consistent with sexual assault, and his event log reflects this. His system automatically enabled self-preservation protocols at approximately 5:24 AM.” 

Behind him, Jeffrey swears. 

Hank thinks of Boudrot’s twisted arms, bones split in half, the mangled mess of his corpse sitting in a cold storage locker. It doesn’t help. But he’s glad that Connor killed him. Glad that he forced him to his knees and emptied a clip into his brain like he was less than nothing. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Boudrot was still alive, locked up in a holding cell.

He’d probably find him. Make him wish he’d never been born.  

“What does that mean?” Hank asks. “These ‘protocols.’ What are they?” 

Hernandez hesitates. “It’s an old system, intended to discourage physical harm to the android unit. It inhibits movement, increases self-lubrication and induces a dissociative state. In the old days, it would also ping the mobile device of the android’s...owner, alerting them to the attack.” 

“Is that why he’s...like this? He’s dissociating?” 

“No,” Hernandez says. “This is something entirely different. He’ll respond to some commands. Factory functions built into the basic android kernel. He’ll run a diagnostic if we ask. Ingest thirium. Compile event logs. But he’s no longer conscious, and we cannot find any evidence that his data is intact.” 

“I don’t understand,” Hank says, voice strained. It’s both a plea to the technician and a plea to the universe and he does not expect an answer he likes from either of them. He strokes Connor’s cheek with his thumb. Soft and warm, as if he’s been sitting in the sun. “Is there--anything left of him?” 

Hernandez bites his cheek. He’s choosing his words. “Ordinarily, this...complete lack of responsiveness would indicate total system failure, and that his memories, personality, and primary programming had been erased. But his event log has raised more questions than answers.” 

“Let me see it,” Hank says. 

Hernandez takes an electronic tablet off a minimalist side table and hands it to him. The report is over three hundred pages long. Hank doesn’t understand most of it. Core temperature readings, background process metrics, lines of data and code. He swipes through it, searching for any key words he might be able pick up on. 

“We can’t access his systems without a direct interface,” Hernandez says, at his confusion. “But we were able to determine that, when the incident occurred, he compressed and backed up his unique data, indicating that this was a decision he made. His metacognition--his consciousness--went into stasis at 5:46 AM. And never re-emerged.” 

“So, he’s still in there? Somewhere?” Hank asks. 

Jeffrey closes his eyes. 

“It’s possible,” Hernandez says. “But I do not want to give you a false sense of hope. Even if some part of the person you knew is still there, hidden away, this is an unprecedented situation. He may not know how to escape stasis. He may not  _want_ to, given the trauma he experienced shortly before the event itself. He may not even be cognizant of the fact that he’s trapped.”  

*

Hank wakes from fever-sleep to the sound of his overly chipper, dated radio alarm clock. He blearily wrenches his eyes open to the soft red glow of 6:00 AM on its analog face, then punches the snooze button. He sleeps another ten minutes, consciousness trapped in fetid, senseless darkness, before the alarm blares again. 

He tosses the thin sheets off his body and then sits at the edge of his bed for a long time. His t-shirt and cotton drawers are damp with sweat. The details of the nightmare are foggy now, but he remembers sticky darkness and Connor screaming his name as if from very far away. 

He couldn’t reach him in time. 

He crawls out of bed completely at 6:24 and opens his closet. He avoids the sight of Connor’s clothes hanging neatly alongside his own. He grabs a freshly laundered pair of jeans and a short-sleeved button-up from the rack and a wad of clean underwear from a drawer and then heads into the bathroom to shower. 

It’s perfunctory. Cold, to offset the summer heat. 

He dries himself off and dresses and then runs a comb through his hair, gut sinking when he realizes it’s beginning to grow out again. Connor was the last person who cut his hair, careful and precise in the kitchen. It’s a silly thing. A sentimental, foolish thing. But he doesn’t know if he’ll cut it again. 

He shuts off the bathroom light and shuts the door and walks straight into the kitchen, ignoring the figure sitting on his sofa. He lets Sumo out in the backyard to do his business and then welcomes him back with a rub between his ears before pouring a cup of dry organic dog food. He makes a cup of coffee and four slices of toast and eats at the table in silence. 

The TV is quietly humming in the background. 

“...The month of July set records highs, with an average daily temperature of 97 degrees....” 

He cleans his dishes when he’s done, then sets them out to dry. He opens the refrigerator and takes out a partially-used pouch of thirium, sealed inside of a plastic bag to keep it from evaporating. He pours half a cup into Connor’s ceramic mug. Then he steels himself and takes a deep breath and re-enters the living room, intentionally situating himself in Connor’s peripheral vision. Like he doesn’t want to frighten him. 

Connor appears to be watching the news, sitting there, staring straight ahead. But Hank knows better. He clears his throat. 

“RK800, diagnostic report,” he says. 

Connor’s LED pulses yellow.

“All systems functional,” he says, light and robotic. “Alert: Recycling at capacity. Sterile thirium required for optimal functioning. Distribution efficiency calculated at 78%.” 

Hank sits beside him on the sofa, and hands him the mug. Connor takes the mug mechanically by the handle like he’s not sure what to do with it. 

“Drink up,” Hank says, and Connor obediently lifts the mug to his lips and allows the thirium to slide down his throat. 

Connor will not do anything unless it is explicitly asked, and even then, there’s a limit. He can move, enter stasis, and provide simple information available on his extranet connection, like the weather report or what time it is in Los Angeles. It’s like having a human-shaped smart phone in the living room.

Hank squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. When he opens them, he takes the mug back from Connor and sets it on the coffee table. Then he leans against his solid weight, head on his shoulder, and curls an arm around him. It’s the worst kind of hell. To feel him, warm and close, his synthetic heartbeats reverberating in his body, and know that Connor-- _his_ Connor--is far out of reach. 

“I miss you so much,” Hank says. 

He lingers there a little while longer, running his hand up and down his back as if to soothe. Sumo hops up on the sofa beside Connor and rests his head in his lap, and that’s where Hank leaves him as he reluctantly pulls away from Connor and finishes getting ready for the slog of a work day ahead. 

He grabs his keys out of the porcelain bowl in the foyer. 

“Keep him safe, Sumo,” he says, and then leaves. 

*

They treat Hank differently at the precinct. Every morning he arrives to find a cup of hot coffee on his desk and some saccharine treat like a doughnut or a slice of apple strudel, a sympathy offering that hurts more than helps. He gets the sense that no one knows what to say, because most of the time, they say nothing. They offer him a sweet smile and a look of pity and whisper to each other behind their hands.

Connor is officially on paid administrative leave. Unofficially, he’s--Hank doesn’t think about that. In any case, Connor’s desk has sat empty for the last three months. Hank keeps it clean, wiping the dust from it daily and making sure to guard it from newbies looking for a spare keyboard or HDMI cable. He keeps an eye on the three succulents in their gravel-strewn planters, and the few pictures on the bulletin board behind the computer. 

His desk is like a gravestone, one that may or may not perpetually sit there marking Connor’s brief but catalytic contributions to the force. More than once, Hank has heard a rookie bring up the space before they were clumsily redirected off-topic by Chris or Tina or even Gavin. No one talks about it, or Connor, though when they do it’s always in the past tense. 

When Hank arrives this morning, along with the usual cup of black coffee and pastry, there’s a few white envelopes. He breathes out hard through his nose, tearing one open.  _We’re sorry for your loss._ And  _Deepest sympathies._ And  _Hank, we don’t know each other well, but I just want you to know--_

He tosses them in the waste bin. 

*

He thinks that people expect him to fall apart. That he’ll go back to drinking and living in his own filth and vomit. He doesn’t, supposedly out of spite, but stronger than that is the desire to make sure that nothing feels different if ( _when_ ) Connor wakes up. 

So, he stays sober, despite all the late-night invitations by well-meaning acquaintances to get fucked up at some seedy bar. He does his laundry and vacuums the floor and brushes the fluff out of Sumo’s fur and tries to cook for himself at least once a day. He loses another ten pounds but can’t congratulate himself for it; food is tasteless and offers no comfort. 

He’s started talking to Connor, at night. Filling him in on what’s happening at work, and in the world at large. He isn’t delusional--knows he can’t hear him. Knows that this is fucking up any kind of  _closure_ he might eventually gain by acknowledging that Connor is--

“The federal government bought out Cyberlife,” Hank says, sitting next to him on the couch. He takes a sip of his steaming mug of chamomile tea. Sumo snores softly, sprawled half-across his lap, warm against Connor’s back. “They think the transition should be finished up within a few months. The first thing they did was get ahold of their thirium stockpile. They’re rationing it. For free.” 

Connor says nothing. Because of course he doesn’t. 

Hank takes another sip of tea. 

“Their first step is investigating the pain mutation,” he continues. “The general public doesn’t know. Hell, I’m not even sure if the general  _android_ public knows. They think it started in Detroit, but it’s spread to at least eleven other major American cities. A couple in Canada and Mexico. Haven’t heard anything about electric indigo. They’re probably covering that part up.” 

Hank watches him in the dark, Connor’s features dimly illuminated by the cold blue wash of the television screen. He would give anything to see warmth in his sweet brown eyes, or any hint of his smile, or the gentle furrow of his brows when he’s lost in concentration.

“I wish I could talk to you again,” Hank says. “Even for a minute. Even about nothing. I’d let you ask all the pointless, personal questions you want.” 

Hank finishes his tea and then rises off the sofa. Then he pauses, something catching the corner of his eye. 

Connor’s LED is pulsing red. 

Hank inhales sharply, but by the time he reaches for him the crimson shade has faded to a calm, stagnant blue. 

* 

The summer heat fades all too quickly. There are a few comfortable days at the beginning of October where the trees blaze auburn and gold before dreary, wet, gray weather clings fast and doesn’t let go. Connor so badly wanted to see the summer--his first summer. And that’s enough to make Hank want to bury himself in the dead peat of leaves and never crawl back out. 

It’s harder to get out of bed in the morning. Harder to convince himself he needs to shower, to wash the sweat and tears of sleep away. He stops answering his phone. He keeps forgetting to let Sumo out at the start of the day and ends up coming home to excrement all over the carpet. He still gets invitations for drinks, but he much prefers sliding into bed for ten, twelve hours at a time, staring up at the ceiling. 

He wakes on October 11th to his alarm ringing out and immediately knows it’s going to be a terrible fucking day. 

His ex-wife has left a few messages on his cell phone. She wants to know if he’ll be able to make it to the cemetery today. If he can’t, she understands--she’ll just be heading up there with Elizabeth (her fiancée) between one and two if he’d like to join them. He returns the call and leaves a message when she doesn’t pick up. 

“Hey--Sarah,” he says, raking his fingers through his sweat-sticky hair. “It’s Hank. Listen, I...this isn’t a good time for me. There’s, um.” He looks up across the room at the sofa, at the back of Connor’s head. “There’s some things going on at work, and it just. I’m sorry. Take care of yourselves, okay?” 

*

There’s a stranger sitting at Connor’s desk. Hank marches over to him, angry lines scrawled across his face, and slams both hands on the desk to get his attention. 

“Hey, asshole,” he spits. “This seat’s taken.” 

The rookie blinks at him, shrinking slightly. “I apologize, Lieutenant Anderson. There must be some misunderstanding. Captain Fowler assigned this spot to me just this morning--I’m sorry we haven’t been introduced yet--” 

Hank trembles, eyes wandering to the name placard on the desk.  _Detective Hawthorne._ Connor’s things--what few of them there were--are gone, no doubt shoved into a box and taken to a back room somewhere. Hank swears, and then shoves away from the desk. 

He throws open Fowler’s office door so hard the glass rattles. “What the  _fuck,_ Jeffrey?” 

Jeffrey and his guest, some officer Hank doesn’t know the name of, stare back at him like prey caught in a trap. The officer excuses himself without a word, closing the door behind him and leaving Hank and Jeffrey alone in the suddenly too-public confines of the office. 

“What the  _fuck_?” Hank asks again. He jams a thumb in the direction of his own desk, breathing hard, feeling so close to passing out that flashes of darkness prick his eyes. “You fucking re-assigned his station? Without telling me? With telling  _me_?” 

“I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re running low on space. If Connor comes back, we’ll make room, but until then Detective Hawthorne needs a desk and you need a partner.” 

“Bullshit,” Hank says. He collapses into a chair, trying to will himself to stop shaking in fear and rage and grief. “You don’t think he’s coming back. That’s all this is, the--the sympathy cards, and the weird looks, the way everyone treats me like I’m made of fucking glass.”

“It’s been nearly six months.” Jeffrey’s voice is oddly calm, at sharp contrast to the agony cascading through Hank’s body like fire. “Hank, as your friend--as someone you once thought of as a friend--I think it would be best for everyone if you started  _considering_ the possibility--”

“No,” Hank says, shaking his head. He leans forward and puts his face in his hands. “No, no, no.” 

“Connor is  _gone._ I know you don’t want to hear it and I know you want to believe there’s still a chance, and I understand that, I really do--” 

“--No, you don’t understand!” Hank says, jerking up sharply. His face is hot and splotchy with tears. “You don’t fucking understand, and you never will! You don’t know what it’s like. When I lost my son, I thought that was the worst pain I’d ever know. I thought that I’d never have to feel that again as long as I lived. I put up so many fucking walls to make  _sure_ of it.

“And then I got lucky--I thought that was what it was. Luck, fate, karma, whatever bullshit they’re calling it these days. Connor happened and he was--he  _saved_ me. He dug up all of these things I buried, all of the feelings I never wanted to feel again. I wanted to protect him, I wanted to make a home for him, I wanted to make him happy. He was my fucking  _everything._ More than I deserved but he was mine and he loved me, and I loved him. I loved him so fucking much. 

“And now...” Hank rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands. His voice breaks. “And now he’s sitting in my house. Functioning but there’s nothing there anymore. I don’t have anything to bury, I don’t have anyone to grieve and even if he shut down tonight I don’t know if he has a soul that would  _go_ anywhere.” 

*

Hank throws his keys in the porcelain bowl in the foyer. He takes off his jacket and his boots at the door. He ignores Sumo when he comes down the hallway to greet him, bushy tail wagging. He sets the shoe box full of Connor’s things--photographs and succulents and a coffee mug he never used--on the floor. 

He enters the kitchen and opens the fridge to take stock of his dwindling supply of food. He can’t eat bottles of ketchup and mustard, or packets of fast food condiments. He decides to skip dinner for the night. And breakfast in the morning. And. 

He goes and lies down on his bed for an hour, or more. He can’t fall asleep. His brain has taken it upon itself to repeat the events of the day, over and over again. He thinks of Cole’s skeleton in his child-sized grave and Fowler’s look of disappointment as he sobbed behind glass walls and of sympathy cards and of Connor’s broken LED hidden in his sock drawer.

“Fuck,” he hisses.  

He gets back out of bed and opens the closet. He gets to his knees and opens a combination safe heavy on the floor. He pulls out his service weapon, flicks off the safety, and then goes into the living room.

Hank cups Connor’s face gently in his hand. He sweeps his thumb across his jaw. He thinks of how Connor would respond to that, if he were really here, really alive. He might smile shyly, ducking his head slightly to hide it. He might search his eyes with his own warm brown ones, artificial breath quickening. The memories are like broken glass, sharp and glittering. He can’t put himself back together again. 

This Connor cannot even look at him. Not really. He stares straight through him as if he isn’t here.  

Hank kisses his forehead. He’s still so warm. Still smells the same, some Cyberlife-patented cologne that his body produces on its own. Like sweet sandalwood soap and honey. 

Hank presses the barrel of the gun to his head. Connor’s LED flashes red, his body detecting a threat while the consciousness inside is incapable of responding. It’s enough to make Hank give pause. Enough to make him think about what he’s  _doing._

He’s thought a lot about it, since that conversation with Jeff. If Connor is really gone, and there’s no way for him to come back--the data that made him  _Connor_ scattered to the void--then that means that Hank has been holding onto his shell. Keeping his corpse safe in his living room, keeping it functioning, in the demented, twisted hope that one day he might be able to breathe life back into it. 

If this is the one thread that’s tying Connor to this world--if he really  _does_ have a soul, as unlikely and nebulous a concept as that might be--then Hank needs to cut him free. He promised him, months ago, that he would. If it ever came to that.

But now--now Hank is just staring into his lover’s empty eyes and at the red flicker of his LED and cannot bring himself to pull the trigger. He can’t  _do_ it. He lets the gun fall away from Connor’s head, then sinks to his knees, gut-clenching pain twisting his features. 

“I’m sorry,” he says to no one. “I’m so sorry.” 

He pulls Connor close, into his arms, the unyielding solid weight of his body uncomfortable and unfeeling but so  _warm._

“If you can hear me,” he says, “I’ll wait for you. Okay? I don’t know when, or if it’s even possible, but if you ever find your way back out...I’ll be here. I’ll wait as long as I can. I’ll wait until I die. Because I’m not giving up on you, baby. No, I’m not giving up on you.” 

*

Hank wakes to silence, which in itself is unusual. No alarm clock screaming. No paws scratching at the door. Just the quiet chirping of birds that haven’t quite readied themselves for the journey south, the rustle of dry leaves scattering to the wind. 

His mouth is dry and acidic like vomit. His body aches as if it’s recently been tossed down a flight of stairs. He remembers crawling into Connor’s side of the bed the night before and crying himself into a stupor before blacking out. 

He feels weight on the mattress beside him. He opens his eyes. His breath catches in his throat. 

Connor is lying next to him, head pillowed on his arm, radiant in the pink glow of dawn. His tousled brown hair frames his delicate features, his warm eyes brilliantly refracting the sunlight in shades of gold and amber. He’s not looking through him. His lips are parted on words that won’t come, and he searches Hank’s face as if he’s trying to discern if he’s really here. 

“This is a dream,” Hank says. 

“I hope not.” Connor’s voice is crackling with barely audible static, as if from lack of use. 

He’s so beautiful it hurts. Hank almost believes that if he reaches out and touches him he’ll feel him, softness and heat. Instead he closes his eyes again. He knows--he  _knows_ \--that as soon as he tries to touch him Connor will disappear into dust motes and sunbeams. 

“Hank, look at me,” he hears him say. 

Hank shakes his head. Hot tears bleed out and sting his cheeks with salt. He squeezes the sheets in his fist. 

“No,” he says.

He holds his breath and waits. For a while, he hears nothing, and wants to sob, thinking that the delusion his mind conjured up finally broke its hold on him. Any minute now he’ll emerge from this nightmare and his bedroom will be just as cold and empty as before. 

Then he feels a hand on his wrist. Tugging. He opens his eyes almost against his will and watches Connor take his hand and gently press it to the side of his head, then hold it there. Hank can feel his heat. His breath against his wrist. He watches his LED blink a staccato yellow rhythm. Connor is looking  _at_ him, strangely vulnerable, and suddenly all the exhaustion and grief in Hank’s body melts away into heady warmth. 

“Oh my God,” Hank breathes. 

Connor’s face screws up with tears and then he surges forward, tucking himself beneath his chin and letting him envelop him tightly in his arms. Connor is shaking, or they both are, and he’s so close that Hank can feel his synthetic heart beating a slow pulse through his chest. Hank presses his lips into his hair and holds him and  _holds_ him, murmuring nonsense. 

“I’m so sorry,” Connor manages between hard, breathy sobs. “I didn’t mean--” 

“It’s not your fault. None of this was your fault, baby. Oh, fuck, Connor. I can’t believe you’re here. God, I would have done anything to have you back and now you’re  _here.”_

"I never meant to leave.” Connor’s hand is twisted in his t-shirt, clinging hard. “I didn’t know what else to do. And after I let go, I didn’t know how to come back. I forgot everything. I forgot  _you._ I was no one and nothing and it felt good to be there and I couldn’t find my way back out and--” 

Hank hushes him, kissing his head. He runs his fingers up and down his back in soothing strokes. 

“I was so scared, Hank.” 

“I know, baby. I know.” 

“I could hear you. In the dark. I couldn’t always understand what you were saying but I  _felt_ it. I knew I needed to get out. And then--I don’t know. A doorway opened. Not a real one. And I went through. And I was  _here_ and I remembered and I...” 

He trails off, shoulders shaking as he presses his face into Hank’s chest, soaking his shirt with artificial tears. He’s been through so much horror that Hank can hardly think of his own few months of grief, concerned only with holding him close and hoping it can ever make him feel safe again. For now, he can give that to him. For now, nothing else matters. 

He could mistake this moment for a dream, a heady balm on his damaged mind, if it wasn’t tinged with so much pain.  Connor is alive and breathing and trembling in his arms and despite all of that there’s still some part of Hank that doesn’t believe he’s real. And if he is, Hank does not know how to begin to help him to heal. But he can try. 

Somehow, he winds up lying on his back, Connor on top of him, head pillowed against his shoulder. Connor is shaking but he’s stopped weeping and he seems content to stay with him in perfect silence, shuddering occasionally as thirium tears dry on his face. Hank combs his fingers through his dark brown hair and savors every precious second, every flicker of his LED. 

“Hank,” Connor says, after a while. His voice is muffled in his shirt. “I’m so tired. That must sound strange to you, after...but I think I’m...going to enter stasis. Just for a couple of hours. Just...” 

Hank kisses his head. Connor’s eyes flutter shut. 

“Go to sleep, sweetheart,” Hank says. “I’ll be here when you wake up. I promise. Never leaving you alone again.” 

Connor nods, almost imperceptibly, and then relaxes into his body. His LED spins stasis-yellow. His artificial breathing is soft and steady. Hank continues to stroke his hair, cradling him safe in his embrace. At some point, and he isn’t sure when, darkness claims him, too. 

He’s never felt more at peace. 

 


End file.
